


A Truth Universally Acknowledged

by teep



Category: Original Work
Genre: Multi, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2018-08-31 19:13:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 46,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8590312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teep/pseuds/teep
Summary: William Pitt, soon-to-be 3rd Earl of Chatham prefers men but his ailing father John (2nd Earl) would like to see his only son and heir married and with an heir on the way.  This is Will's story.





	1. In Which John Speaks To His Son Re: Marriage

**Author's Note:**

> I was on a flight from Barcelona to Philadelphia with nothing to read. I wanted a Regency Era Sex Porn Book, kind of like a... Jane Austen with buttsex. Sense and Sensibility and Sodomy, or something. I could not find the thing I wanted. This is the thing I wanted and it may be that I am the only person who wants it. That's fine.
> 
> This much we know: John Markham was a real person in London in 1819. A pauper, he lived in St Gile's Workhouse, on the corners of Endell Street and Shorts Gardens, near Convent Garden. John Markham was convicted of sodomy at Old Bailey (London's central court) on October 27, 1819. 
> 
> The court record of this conviction is as follows: 1432. JOHN MARKHAM was indicted for sodomy. GUILTY-DEATH. Aged 26. Second Middlesex Jury, before Mr. Baron Wood. 
> 
> For his crime, John Markham was put to death by hanging at eight o'clock in the morning on December 30, 1819, his death observed by The Morning Post of 12-30-1819 and also by John Hobhouse, later Baron Broughton, friend to Lord Byron, and radical rabble rouser who was imprisoned at Newgate at the time. 
> 
> The act of sodomy that cost John Markham his life was allegedly committed with another pauper, in a workhouse, on top of a coffin, at least according to Hobhouse's diary. No record exists of what happened to the other sodomitic pauper, if he consented to the sodomy, or indeed if John Markham topped or bottomed. 
> 
> England stopped hanging men for sodomy in 1835 with the deaths of John Smith and James Pratt, also real people who really died for having consensual anal sex with each other in reasonable privacy.
> 
> Hobhouse wrote of John Markham's hanging: ‘Tis dreadful hanging a man for this practice.
> 
> John Pitt, for his part, was a real person who was really Second Earl of Chatham. He did really have a younger brother named William Pitt The Younger who became prime minister of England (twice), never married, did not have a mistress known to history, and was suspected of being a homosexual. He may have been asexual but did 'prefer the company of younger men well into his thirties and forties.' John Pitt married but did not have any children, so his son Will is entirely fictional.

Kent, England, 1819  
Thursday, November 4  
4:30 PM

Sitting at his desk in his study, John Pitt, second Earl of Chatham, regarded his accounts. He squinted to bring the orderly columns of numbers into focus, his glasses perched on his forehead where he'd forgotten them. He smiled in satisfaction at what he was simply confirming to be true -- the country estates were in fine shape and his investments were turning a tidy profit as well. Facing the end of his days at sixty-three, at least according to his doctors, John felt he'd been shortchanged on the promise of three score and ten, but at least his worldly affairs were well in order. More time would not have made much difference on that front except, perhaps, in increasing the totals at the bottoms of the columns. 

John leaned back in his chair and sipped the brandy that had appeared near his right hand precisely at the stroke of five. That was Hensley, he thought. Always Hensley. Robert Hensley had spent the last thirty years perfecting the art of service, twenty of them as the Earl of Chatham's steward. His job put him above the butler and Pitt's valet, with duties that were rather vaguely defined but were most neatly summed up as "arranging the world so that it pleased John Pitt, Second Earl of Chatham". One small aspect of his duties was ensuring that Pitt's expected afternoon brandy appeared precisely at its preordained time. Tilting the glass to watch the interplay of light, crystal, and liquor, John wondered idly how Hensley would tactfully suggest he put the accounts aside if he lingered over them longer than the remaining daylight allowed. However he'd do it, John figured, it would be the best way because that's what Hensley did.

The Second Earl of Chatham sighed. If he didn't quit toying with the brandy and get on with the business at hand, there wouldn't be a Fourth Earl of Chatham and, worse, Hensley would have to remind him that he'd said he wanted to have a talk with Will. He'd made a point of mentioning to Hensley yesterday that the last thing he needed to put to rights before his sands ran out was getting William settled into married life. John had no doubt that, if needed, Hensley's reminder to get on with it would be discreet, tasteful, and only slightly tinged with reproach. He still did not want to experience it.

For what it was worth, his son William was practically thirty and had no discernable interest in settling down. It was time, and all at once now, since John had spoken frankly with his doctor, beyond time, for William to marry. He drained the last of the brandy and set the crystal down with a thunk.

"Hensley?"

"M'lord?"

"Please send for William -- I'd like to talk to him now."

"Of course, M'lord." Hensley went off to locate William with the same quiet efficiency that he handled every other request for the Earl of Chatham.

Half an hour later, when the twilight had almost faded into night, William strode into his study, tousled brown hair worn long over his forehead in the fashion of the day. He was still in his tall boots and riding jacket, cheeks colored from the brisk fall air. Slightly out of breath, he sat on the edge of one of the study's chairs and continued on. "What a day for riding! I took 'Baster over the stubbled fields today and she was a right pip in the chill. Drake's all for hunting this weekend, start of the season you know, and I'm set to be at the front of the field."

John enjoyed seeing William's enthusiasm for riding to hounds, but he hadn't asked William here to talk to him about his grey mare or the opening meet at Drake's. Trying hard not to smile indulgently, John leaned forward and spoke flatly. "William, I'll be blunt. It's time for you to marry. I am not getting any younger and I want to see you settled and the family line ensured before I die." 

William's color fled. "That again? What's the hurry? You're in fine shape, many years to run yet. And I've been meaning to marry, really I have, just haven't got 'round to it yet." William stood up and started pacing the room. 

"William. Son. You went from Harrow to Cambridge, which was fine -- I've nothing against a young man getting an education -- but then you spent three years on the Continent doing what I can only assume was the grandest Grand Tour in recorded history. After that, you came back for a sixmonth before heading out on a quick trip to the Far East that stretched to two years because it was 'larger than you expected'. You came home for a summer then jaunted off to Egypt to see those damned dainty horses," here he held up a hand to forestall any objection from William, "and yes, I know the little Barb you brought home has crossed extremely well with our mares, you were completely right about that, but it's beside the point. " John sighed heavily. "The point, son, is that you've been home a year and a half now and still have no wife. You're nearly thirty and it's time for you to settle down."

William stopped pacing and looked at his father with what he sincerely hoped would pass for a vaguely-interested expression instead of rapidly-escalating panic. "What brought this on?," he asked. "Have Emma's parents inquired? Or was it her? She didn't mention anything to me when I saw her last week at the Huntington's dinner." He ran a hand through his hair, mussing the tousled style so that it lost its carefully arranged careless charm and, instead, hung down in strands over his face. The effect was not particularly dignified.

John shook his head. "It's not them or her. It's me. The doctors say I have a year, possibly two at the outside." He paused. "I'll be happier leaving this world if I see you married before the holidays and with an heir on the way before spring. Willam, offer for Emma so that we can have you married before Christmas."

William looked at his father with fresh eyes, taking in the near-transluscent skin, hollowed cheeks, and roomy fit of his father's normally well-tailored clothes. How had he not seen it? He'd come back, well, yes, two summers ago and it was heading into late fall now. It was a year and a half since Egypt. He'd no idea where the time went, but apparently he spent it seeing his father every day without ever actually looking at the man. He swallowed, once, and said, haltingly, "I suppose... yes, Emma. We've always expected to marry and we've certainly gotten well-acquainted since I returned from Egypt. She's coming over Friday so that we can ride to Drake's together in the morning, so I'll sound her out about it then."

John smiled, gently. "Sound her out about it? Son, she'll say yes. We've had the contracts done for a year now and she's fond enough of you. Might faint from surprise that you've finally up and asked, but once she's back to her senses she'll say yes for certain. Now get on with you, it's time to dress for dinner and you're still in riding clothes."

William left his father's study as rapidly as he could without seeming to flee and climbed the stairs to his rooms. Shutting the door, he hissed his breath out through his teeth and clenched his fists to avoid hitting the walls. "Damn," he said. "Damn, damn, damn." He sat on the bed and put his face in his hands, breathing heavily as he tried to compose himself, with some success.

After a time, he didn't know how long, his thoughts were interrupted by a polite, formal inquiry. "Sir? I thought perhaps the buff waistcoat for dinner today?" Standish asked the question as if he didn't know that William would acquiesce to his admittedly impeccable taste.

"Certainly, Standish. You know best." William stood up and began unbuttoning his riding jacket.

"Very good, sir." Standish stood behind William to take the jacket as he shrugged out of it and then laid it over the hanger to be brushed and cleaned. Then he turned back to William, unpinned his stock tie, and began unwrapping it from William's neck, eyes carefully focused on a job he could do blindfolded. "Are you sure you're up to dinner this evening? You seem a bit... rattled." He turned to put away the tie pins and stock, leaving William to undo his own cufflinks.

William took his time undoing the cufflinks while he tried to come up with an answer to Standish's careful inquiry, but the shirt's sleeves still hung open before he replied. William skinned off his shirt and then his words came out in a rush. "Father's on me again about getting married. It's not like before, he is absolutely set on it this time. I've nothing against Emma in particular, but blast it all, I feel like a noose is closing around my neck."

Standish took the shirt from William and shook it free from wrinkles before hanging it up. "So it's Emma he's wanting you to marry?"

"Yes, of course. Who else?" William didn't sound particularly happy as he continued, "She's my cousin and our lands adjoin and I've known her since she was a tiny wisp of a thing."

"Well, you enjoy each other's company and she's a lovely young lady. There's many a man who has done far worse than that at the altar." Standish paused, his back to William as he was holding up two neckcloths for consideration. "Or would you rather someone else?" Standish asked lightly. He judged the left neckcloth superior to the right and laid it out beside the previously-approved waistcoat as he waited for William to answer.

"You bloody well know there isn't anyone else. God, man, you handle all my affairs. You'd know if I was mooning after anyone, probably even before I knew myself." William practically spat the words.

"Of course, sir." Standish said nothing else, eyeing dress shirts with the same amount of serious consideration one might give to a treaty between long-warring nations. From a choice of three, he selected one that, as far as William could see, was identical to the other two. Placing it beside the neckcloth and waistcoat, he spoke, "Let me help you with your boots, sir. I don't think they're broken-in enough to come off without a fight." William sat on the bed while Standish knelt on the floor, taking William's booted foot in his hands. He rocked the heel down to slip it, then pulled firmly on heel and toe to slide the boot off. "And now the other... there. That's done it. You'll be wanting this pair for opening hunt on Saturday?"

"Yes." William brightened a bit. "'Baster's in fine form -- had her out today for a good run. The cooler weather's put her mind to hunting too, I expect, and after a day off tomorrow, she'll give Drake's Silas a run for the front."

Standish set the boots to the side for polishing and selected, with rather more alacrity than he'd heretofore been displaying, dinner trousers which he laid out with the rest of William's outfit.

William got on with dressing for dinner, capably assisted by Standish in companionable silence. While Standish was fixing his cufflinks on the fresh shirt, William offered, "Emma's staying over Friday night so that we can ride to Drake's together for the hunt. I told father I'd ask her then."

"Very good, sir. And if I may say so, sir, I believe she's inclined to say yes."

"I think so too, Standish." William tried for a smile but didn't quite manage it.

William went down to dinner, hoping there wouldn't be a fight at the table. He needn't have worried. Dinner was a quiet and subdued affair, with relatively minimal conversation, mostly on the productivity of the various estates and the general advisability of running sheep on the low pastures at Chatham next spring.


	2. Emma arrives at Chatham in the rain

The next morning also passed uneventfully, with no mention of marriage or Emma. William relaxed a little -- his father had apparently decided that there was no sense nagging about the marriage question until after he'd had a chance to talk to Emma. 

On Friday afternoon, with a steady rain falling, William's cousin Emma Grenville rode up the long drive to the manor house on her bay gelding. Dressed in a sensible brown wool habit that was about two shades lighter than Button's wet winter coat, Emma looked like part of the late-fall landscape except for her blonde hair. It had been bright curls under her darling riding hat when she'd left Ivy Hall, but even the best rag curls couldn't stand up to English rain so now she had dark gold strands hanging down straight with beads of water dripping off the ends. Couldn't be helped, she thought, and there was plenty of time before dinner for her to set herself to rights.

She trotted Button briskly up the graveled drive to the circle at the front of the manor house. Both footmen, in overcoats because of the chill rain, stepped forward from the shelter of the porch and came down the steps. Emma knew Charles, of course, but the other footman was new. The one she didn't know spoke in a young voice just past cracking. "Miss Grenville?" She nodded and the young footman continued, "We were told to expect you this afternoon. Did something happen to your groom? Is everything all right?"

Emma smiled down at the earnest young footman's open face. "Good afternoon. You are...?"

"James, ma'am."

"Hallo, James, pleased to meet you."

Surprised, James stuttered, "Ple-Pleased to meet you too, Ma'am," then, off script and adrift, he stood mute. Charles stood beside him, not-quite-smiling at his bewilderment.

Emma let James stand for just a hair too long and then threw him a lifeline, "If you'd be so kind as to help me down?"

Stepping forward immediately, James replied, "Of course, ma'am." Blushing furiously at needing to be reminded of his duty, James helped her dismount smoothly. That, he'd had practice at doing. Once she'd lit on the ground, Emma handed James her crop and flipped Button's reins over his head so that James could lead him down to the stables.

"Thank you, James. I know it's unusual, but I ride out by myself frequently. Chatham is less than half an hour's ride from Ivy Hall and Button's carried me here often enough to make a path for us through the low pastures." She laughed. "Also, if there are brigands between here and Ivy Hall, we've not seen them yet."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Please take Button 'round to Wilkins and have him dried and put up. Also, remind the lads to clean his tack -- We're going to opening hunt tomorrow over at Drake's and I'd like us to look smart for the occasion."

"Of course, ma'am." James led the amenable gelding off to the stables, leaving Emma in the drive with the other footman while the rain spattered down. Grinning impishly at him, she took his proffered arm and they started up the stairs to the doors of Chatham Hall.

"Charles, didn't you warn the lad not to ask silly questions?" Charles had the good grace to look a bit shamefaced. She continued, "Shame on you, embarrassing him like that when he's new to the job."

"Miss Grenville, better he learn to hold his tongue when it's you than with someone who'd take offense at his impertinence. A bit of embarrassment will help him remember to do better next time." Charles opened the heavy door for her. "Now, in you go -- it's a raw day and you're soaked to the bone."

"Thank you Charles."

In the house, Emma removed her riding hat but struggled with her riding gloves -- the soaked kidskin refused to slide off her hands. Tugging each glove finger in turn, she discovered, let her inch the gloves off bit by bit. While she was thus distracted, the butler startled her, "Good afternoon, Miss Grenville."

"Oh! Good afternoon, Mr. Hulley, if a somewhat wet one. The Peony Room?" Emma usually stayed in the Peony Room at Chatham, so named because it had rather appalling peony wallpaper. It also had eastern windows that caught the morning light. Emma endured the peony wallpaper but adored the morning light, claiming it woke her gently and put her in a good mood for the day.

"As always, Miss Grenville. Your things got here this morning and I sent them up there for you. Shall I send Lucy up?"

"That would be splendid, Mr. Hulley."

Emma headed up the stairs to the Peony Room, impatient to get out of her damp, vaguely sheep-scented wool riding outfit and dress for dinner. When she got there, Lucy was waiting to help her undress, towel off, and reassemble herself into something resembling a lady instead of a drowned kitten. The dry clothes were no problem as they'd come over in the carriage that morning, but her hair was soaked. Lucy towel-dried the worst of the wet, combed it in front of the fire until it dried, and then swept everything up into a chignon she pinned into place. That looked a bit severe, so she coaxed out and curled a few tendrils with tongs to frame Emma's face. "That'll do all right, won't it, ma'am?", she asked timidly.

Emma smiled and tilted her head in the mirror, admiring Lucy's work. "It looks lovely. You have a deft hand, Lucy."

"Begging your pardon, ma'am?"

"Oh, sorry! I meant you're good at it, you have the knack. 'Deft' means 'skillful' or 'clever' -- it's a compliment."

"Thank you, ma'am. Is there anything else?"

"No, Lucy, that'll be all for now. Supper is at eight-thirty?"

"Yes, ma'am. His lordship likes to dine early."

"I'll head down to the library, then, see if I can find out what happens to Guy Mannering. Will suggested I read it last time I was here so I took it up and got started but didn't manage to finish it." 

The library was a large, rectangular room with a door on one short end, windows along one long side and shelving full of books on the other. Along the window side, it had three comfortable chairs, placed to catch the light for reading, and on the short side that didn't have a door, there was a large, heavy reading table and a chair that matched it. The reading table had several candlesticks to provide light -- John Pitt didn't care for the scent or smoke from oil lamps. 

Emma lit a candle and carried it over to the shelves so that she could see well enough to locate Guy Mannering. She'd left him on the eye-level shelf, about halfway down the wall from the door, and that was indeed where he'd remained. Book located, Emma opened to where she'd left off and dove back in. It was a good two hours 'till supper but the time flew by and she'd barely closed the cover on Guy Mannering when Lucy came up to let her know it was time to head down.


	3. John, Will, and Emma have breakfast

Fog hung low on Saturday morning, a grey sky promising damp conditions for the opening hunt of the season. William's normally-chatty valet Standish dressed him for breakfast with minimal conversation, well aware that William wasn't really functional until after his breakfast tea, and sent him down to breakfast. William sat down opposite his Father, the pair of them joined shortly by Emma.

"You young folks are off hunting this morning, then, eh?", said John companionably.

"Yes. It looks like perfect weather for it, too," said Emma. "There's a bit of a mist, but it should burn off by mid-morning, and scent holds better when it's slightly damp out anyway. We ought to get in a few good runs today."

Will looked at Emma as if she had announced her intention to attend the hunt stark naked. She ignored him as she buttered a muffin. Concerned, he asked, "You surely aren't intending to gallop after the hounds, are you? I'd thought you were riding along to the meet with me and then waiting at Drake's for the luncheon afterward, like you did last season."

Emma laughed and reached for the marmalade. "No, I won't be galloping or leaping, but I did want to try to follow the action in the field this year. I'd like to see the hounds work." She applied marmalade to her muffin with perhaps an excessive amount of artistry, using the time to marshal her argument. "And I want to see the field in flight. It seems ever so exciting -- all the men come back from hunting covered in mud and tired to the bone but their eyes are sparkling and they share vivid tales of the chase at the hunt luncheons. How could I not want to be a part of it?" She crunched into her muffin enthusiastically.

"If you're not galloping or leaping, there's no chance you'll keep up." William paused for a sip of his tea. "When the huntsman blows Gone Away, the horses get their blood up for the chase and there's hardly any holding them back." 

"I'm not--" She'd barely got started before he cut her off.

"Dash it all, Emma, your Button is a good sort, but he's still a horse. He's going to try to stay with the herd; it's his nature. You're going to get yourself killed if he goes tearing along after the hunt field." William's concern was well-founded. Though Emma was a skilled rider, the relative insecurity* of the sidesaddle made leaping fences in full gallop, as one did while following the hounds, completely out of the question. (*Regency-era sidesaddles lacked a leaping head and did not offer the lady rider any security over fences. The leaping head was introduced in the 1830's and substantially improved a lady's stability when riding aside.)

"You've got it all wrong, Will. Attempting what you have in mind would almost certainly end in calamity, but it's not even remotely what I'm intending." Emma started out a bit sharper than she'd intended, but she moderated her tone as she went on, "I spoke to Bella and Georgette -- they're both splendid horsewomen, as you well know -- and we're hoping to follow at a fair distance, to observe the action from good vantage points on the hills and to go through the gates instead of over the fences." She took a moment to look at the men. Will nodded encouragingly. John looked thoughtful, instead of dismissing her out of hand like she thought he would. Emboldened, she continued, "I've no desire to kill myself and I'm well aware Button would try to follow the other horses if I was nearby when they headed off pell-mell. However, if we're watching from a distance, in our own group, Button shouldn't feel the pull of the herd so strongly. I thought we'd also have Bella's groom ride with us to open gates and offer any assistance we might need." Emma looked at William, to see what he thought of the idea.

"That's... you know, that's not a bad plan, Emma. I think it might work." William stopped, struck by a thought, then continued. "If he's at the meet, you might ask Lord Weatherby to accompany you and explain the action in the field. He's hunted forever, knows the hounds and their voices as if they were his children. He's also well-acquainted with the properties around Drake's and could easily direct you to the best vantages no matter where the hunt takes us." Emma brightened considerably at that.

"Do you think he would?" asked Emma.

"I'm not sure," replied William, "I hope he will. He's nearly sixty and his knee hasn't been right since he fell at that awful stile at Batcher's last season, but he's mad for the sport. His wife's terrified that he's going to suffer another fall, maybe one he won't get up from."

"I see," said Emma. "If he's helping us, he's not... backing away from hunting so much as he's assisting young ladies. I'll have Bella ask him, she's charming enough to get cream from a cat."

"Well, Emma," said John, "You do seem to have thought this through. As long as you take a groom along, ride in a group, and stay well back from the actual hunt field, I don't think safety will be an issue. I'm not sure I'd call your... hilltop viewing 'hunting' but it should be safe enough."

"I'm glad you approve of ladies riding, Uncle. Papa is practically in the last century, keeps going on how it's too much exercise for our delicate constitutions. He barely lets me ride here and back." Emma sounded frustrated.

"I'm sure your father only wants what is best for you." John shot a pointed look at William, a wasted effort since William was, at that moment, busily cutting up his sausage. "And he's not as 'last century' as you claim if he's willing to let you ride over to Drake's with Will to attend the hunt."

"Well, I didn't exactly tell him I was planning on watching the hunt from the hilltops. But riding over with William was no problem -- Papa is convinced that I need to spend more time with Will, silly as that sounds," laughed Emma. "I mean, we're practically in each other's pockets already."

"Now, that's not so," chuckled John. "I know for a solid fact that it's been a week since you've seen William. With an extended separation like that, I'm sure you'll have plenty to chat about on the ride over."

"My life isn't as busy as all that, Uncle. I haven't got much in the way of news, but I'm sure Will and I shall pass the time companionably. We usually do." Emma got a devilish look on her face as she continued, "Perhaps Will's finally managed to get through Mansfield Park and he'll tell me all he thought about it on the ride over to Drake's." She looked over at William, banking on the fact that he'd not spent more than twenty minutes reading Mansfield Park since she'd loaned it to him two years ago, shortly before he headed off to Egypt.

"That again?" laughed William. "You might as well have it back, Em. I'm not interested in a lady's novel of manners."

"I'm surprised it's taken you two years to confess to your lack of interest in literature." Emma did her best to sound serious, an effort spoiled by the way her eyes crinkled at the corners. "You should have just said up front that you'd no taste for such things instead of leading me on about it." 

"Oh, I've not led you on, Em. I read lots of books, just, well, GOOD books, ones with things happening in them besides a lot of folks sitting around at tea." William grinned at Emma, taking up the challenge. "Take Guy Mannering, now there's a novel! Things happen in that book! There are kidnappings and fights and smugglers and it's all very exciting, nothing at all like those boring novels about girls getting married." He looked smugly at Emma, waiting for her return salvo.

"Will. Guy Mannering is a potboiler, not literature. I finished it off yesterday before dinner and can't say as how I was impressed. It was sensationalist and pandering. In a hundred years, nobody will be reading Guy Mannering. Mansfield Park is a story for the ages." Emma had tried to like Guy Mannering, but... she had her limits.

"In a hundred years, Em, we'll all be dead and nobody will care what novels we have or haven't read. But if it's important to you, I'll give Mansfield Park another go. Now, I've got to see if the grooms have managed to clean up Alabaster." William excused himself from the table. 

Bold in the hunt field and fast enough to keep right behind the huntsmen, 'Baster also had a genuine and well-exercised talent for rolling in the mud at the most inconvenient times. The morning of opening hunt was precisely the time his grey mare would choose for mud rolling, William would bet on it, and with the rain yesterday, she'd have no problem finding a suitable spot. Fortunately, the grooms at Chatham were capable of magic with hot wrung-out towels and elbow grease. They managed to present him with a gleaming white (Like all "grey" horses, Alabaster had started off a darker grey and gradually faded in color to the point where, in the fall of her tenth year, she was a color non-horsepeople would call "white".) mare even when she'd started the day a muddy brown and, it being foxhunting in England, would probably end the day a muddy brown once more. He wasn't really needed at the stables to oversee his horse's grooming, but it made a plausible excuse for leaving the table early.


	4. Will goes to the potting shed and his knees.

Will headed in the direction of the stables, but veered off to the walled gardens once he figured he was out of sight of the estate's windows. Like most estates, Chatham had brick-walled gardens where many of the vegetables and fruits for the manor house (upstairs and below) were grown under the watchful eyes of the master gardener and his staff.

William knew that at this early hour, the head gardener Smythe, grey-haired and gnarled, would still be nursing his second cup of tea and trying to convince his left hip that walking was a good idea. The first half of the day's work in the gardens was typically left to the capable, broad hands of Thomas Hobb, the man William was out to see.

William found Hobb picking the last of the season's apples from the trees espaliered against the eastern wall of the fruit garden. In his mid-thirties, Hobb was no taller than William but broader in shoulder and thigh, with the powerful, thick forearms of a man who worked hard for his living. He had nut brown eyes, hair to match that curled over his ears, and a round, honest face. Hobb was alone -- November was a quiet season in the gardens since it fell after the bulk of the harvest and well before the season for forcing greens under glass.

Will regarded Thomas Hobb from behind for a moment, noting the way his breeches stretched taut over his ass when he reached for a distant fruit. In a just world, he'd... William shook his head. Best not to think about that. He spoke cordially, "Mr. Hobb? Could I have a moment of your time?"

Hobb's reply was immediate and equally cordial. "Of course, m'lord." Hobb put the apples he held into the basket beside his feet and brushed his hands against his pants to remove imaginary dust. Turning to Will, he flicked his eyes around the walled garden and, seeing it empty, eyed William appreciatively up and down before continuing, "and what d'ya want me a moment for?" with a bit of a leer in his voice.

Will grinned at him. "I think you know." He brushed his hand down his front, lingering the slightest bit too long at the fall-front of his breeches.

"Not here, my William. Summat could see."

"All right, where?"

"Potting shed? We should have some privacy there." Hobbs picked up the apple basket and turned to go to the shed, knowing William would follow in a few minutes.

The potting shed was a small brick building adjacent to the melon and cucumber houses. The inside was dark and cluttered, but a keen observer could make out shelves filled with ranks of neatly-stacked clay pots in various sizes and rows of glass cloches used to extend the season for tender plants. Two rough wooden potting benches provided work surfaces for the gardeners and a jumble of rakes, hoes, shovels, and cultivators leaned in one corner. The only light in the place came through a row of small, high-set windows. Best of all, if somewhat inexplicably, the potting shed had a door that could be bolted from the inside. 

Having waited a few minutes longer than he actually needed to delay in order to give Hobbs a chance to anticipate his arrival, William creaked the door open and stepped into the dim light of the potting shed, closing the door behind him. "Tom? Are you here?"

"Are ye daft, Will? O'course I'm not here. I'm out working at me job and staying well clear of hanging offenses wi' t' earl's son." Hobb stepped out of the shadows in the corner of the shed and clasped William by the back of the neck, drawing him near enough to feel the heat from his body. He looked at the curve of Will's lips, imagined them stretched around the root of his cock, and knew from William's slow grin that his own pupils were already blown with lust.

"You should see your face, Tom, it'd drive an angel to sin." Will slid his arms around Hobb's neck and let himself be gathered close. When Tom laced his fingers through Will's hair and tilted his head to the side for better access to his mouth, Will let that happen too, welcoming the rough scrape of Tom's cheek against his and the hot wet of Tom's mouth.

His cock was starting to take a serious interest in the proceedings, so Will spread his legs apart for Tom's, tried to rut against the muscled thigh that... wasn't there? And Tom'd stopped kissing him. William opened his eyes to meet Tom's brown ones, wide with concern. Tom put his hands on William's shoulders and pushed him away, slightly. "Will. You don't ever give over so easy. What's wrong?"

Will cut to the chase -- because these meetings were stolen time, they didn't allow for the niceties of breaking news gently. "My father's dying. He wants me married before he dies and I'm to ask for Emma in a few hours, on the way to Drake's." William looked at Tom, his grey eyes wide. "What do I do, Tom? I can't... with a woman. I gave my word to my dying father that I'd offer for Emma, so what the bloody hell am I going to do?"

Hobb sighed heavily. William's duty to marriage was familiar ground -- not soluble, but familiar -- but the fact that he 'couldn't' with a woman was new information. Up until now, William had only admitted to having a taste for men. He'd never said anything about a complete lack of interest in women. "You're for sure it's no good with a woman? Have ye ever tried...?", he asked carefully.

"I have. It's not... I can't... Tom, I can't fuck with a cock that won't stand. It was embarrassing as hell and I won't be doing that again."

"I see," said Tom, "though you've always sprung right up up for me, Will. I'd have accused you of the opposite problem, to be honest." Tom flicked his eyes down at the front of William's breeches, their tight fit leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. "Like now." He slid his hands down to Will's firm ass and pulled him close as he slid his leg between Will's thighs. William groaned softly, rocking his hips into Tom's thigh for friction on his cock.

"God, that feels good." He turned towards Tom's neck and started licking, sucking, and biting his way down from just under Tom's ear down to where his neck joined his shoulder. Tom's cock thickened and lengthened in response. Sliding a hand down to Tom's groin, Will chuckled at the hard length he found there. "I'm not the only one guilty of 'the opposite problem'."

"You just here to complain or are you gonna do something about it?" Tom looked at William, challenge in his eyes.

William pulled back from Tom. He squared his shoulders and drew himself up, looked straight at Tom and began to speak in a low, intent voice. "Get up against the wall, Tom, facing me." As he spoke, his hand slid down, cupping his own erection idly through his breeches. Tom's eyes were locked on William's hand but he did what William said. 

"Spread your legs, wider than your shoulders." Tom did, thigh muscles quivering slightly since the stance was just a bit too wide to be comfortable. "Yes, like that. That's good, Tom." The warm approval in his voice went straight to Tom's cock. William continued, "Open your breeches and take your prick out for me," as matter of fact as if he were asking when the pears would be ripe. 

By now, Tom's cock was pressed hard against the front of his breeches and it sprung free as soon as his broad, callused hands had undone the buttons and let the fall drop. "That's a lovely thing -- I like seeing you hard for me. Now, hands open, arms out from the shoulders, palms flat against the wall." Tom did as he was told, captive to Will's voice and his own desire to play the game. His breath started to come in little pants from the effort of submission, from the discomfort of the pose, from his arousal. And still, he couldn't stop staring at Will's hand lazily stroking his own erection, reaching down to cup his balls almost absentmindedly. Will was hard, painfully so -- Tom could see it against his breeches -- but he kept talking in that calm, controlled voice as he approached Tom, who was flat up against the wall. 

Will stared straight at Tom as he spoke, "I want to suck your cock." Tom's cock jerked. His fingers, splayed against the brick wall of the potting shed, went white under the nails where he was pressing hard against the brick to keep from moving. William took another step forward, hand still gliding lightly over the front of his own breeches.

"I want to take your prick into my mouth and wet you down until you can slide in and out of my throat easily." Clear liquid oozed out of the slit at the end of Tom's prick and a strand of it hung from the bobbing head, not quite enough weight to make a droplet. Will was almost close enough to touch if Tom took a hand off the wall, but he knew that if he did that without William's say-so, Will would turn on his heel and leave immediately. He'd tried it once, is how he knew, and it took two months for William to approach him again.

"I want you to hear my breath catch and hitch as the head of your prick stops my breathing when I swallow you." Tom's breath was now ragged. His shoulders were starting to hurt with the effort of holding his arms out to his sides. Will was a handsbreadth from him now, one hand on the wall to support his weight as he leaned forward to whisper in Tom's ear the last part.

"And I want your full attention on what I'm doing to your cock. Close your eyes." Tom's eyes snapped shut as the breath from Will's last words warmed his cheek.

Tom heard fabric rustle as William went to his knees on the potting shed floor. He felt Will's hands on his hips, holding him steady against the wall. He felt the wet heat of Will's mouth on the head of his cock, his tongue slipping into Tom's slit and lapping like a cat at the clear, slippery liquid there. He groaned when that heat left, but then Will started making broad strokes down his shaft on all sides, carefully wetting every inch of his thick, aching cock. Once thoroughly wetted, Tom's cock slid easily down Will's throat, just as Will had promised. Tom listened to the the sloppy wet sounds, the slight gagging noises, and the raspy-harsh breaths that punctuated the wet heat and steady rhythm of Will paying exquisite attention to his cock. One of Will's hands left Tom's hip and went to his own pants, opening them and springing his own cock free, thumbing the head before starting to work himself in a slow rhythm as he sucked Tom. 

Will's mouth was slower than his own hand and didn't grip his cock as tightly but it was slippery, warm, and wet with a moment of tight constriction on his cockhead every time it slipped down Will's throat. He'd gasped the first time he felt that, not knowing what it was, but Will, who understood more about Tom's nature than he had any right to, took one of Tom's hands and placed it gently on the side of his neck, letting Tom feel his own cock push into and expand Will's throat. The realization of what was happening, that first time, tipped Tom over the edge and he came, helplessly, down the throat stretched around his cock. Afterwards, with swollen and bruised lips that made him look delightfully debauched, Will had whispered, "Felt it, didn't you, Tom? You know that I can only breathe on the upstrokes? Your cock fills my throat when I go down, blocks my air. I can barely keep from spending in my breeches when I've got you buried in my throat like that. It's so... intimate." 

Tom pushed the memory away -- thinking about it more would end things sooner than he'd like -- and concentrated on Will's mouth. His shoulders ached from keeping his arms out, but he was close, muscles tense, cock rigid. Will knew it, had learned the other man's tells for when he was about to come, and kept his rhythm steady until Tom, with a choked moan, spent in strong pulses down William's throat. Will swallowed, or tried to, the muscles in his throat squeezing another groan from Tom. As Tom gasped for breath, Will shuddered as his own orgasm hit and he shot pearly drops on the floor of the potting shed. He let Tom's cock slip from his mouth and leaned his head on Tom's thigh. 

"You can relax now, Tom. You did well." Will's voice was soft. Tom dropped his arms and shifted his feet closer together. He threaded the fingers of one hand through Will's hair and caressed the nape of his neck. Will nestled into the gesture and continued, "God, Tom, what am I going to do about this marriage business?"

"You're going to offer for her, Will. She's a good match, you get on with her well, and I'm not sure you can put it off much longer." Tom's voice was comforting but sad. "The world's not about to change and you could do worse. Emma is kind and she genuinely likes you. Perhaps you'll be able to work something out."

"She'll want me to fuck her, Tom," spat Will, throwing the blunt words out. "That is what husbands do to wives. It's the most basic bloody job of a husband." He stood and tucked his cock away, buttoning his breeches and dusting off his knees as best he could.

"You're not the first man's found himself in this situation, William. We are not the only men in all of England inclined toward other men." Tom set his clothing to rights.

"I'm well aware. Harrow's was a very educational institution indeed," snipped William. "But others get to be confirmed bachelors. Just look at my namesake uncle! Never married, spent his life with younger male friends about the place, and still got to run the bloody country. Twice."

"William Pitt the Younger was a political great, one of the most capable prime ministers England has ever had, and also," Tom chided gently, "not the heir to Chatham. It didn't matter if he married -- Chatham's future was ensured through your father and you." said Tom. "The estate and the earldom are depending on you now as John's only son. You need to marry Emma and she needs to bear you an heir, but everything else is up for negotiation. Emma's not been pressing her affections on you, has she?"

"No--" said William thoughtfully, "She's never pushed for a kiss or been overly forward. Emma's very respectably modest."

"So you don't really know what her wants or needs are, do you? Is it possible that she desires women as you desire men?"

"Mind your tone, Tom, that's my cousin you're talking about."

"You can be perverse but she cannot? How is that--" Tom sighed. "Never mind. Look, William, the only real issue here is that you can't put a baby in her womb. Fine. Then find someone who can." Tom picked up his apple basket and, after cracking the door to check for wayward observers, left the potting shed and went back to work.

William, having likewise made a clean exit from the potting shed, headed down to the stables. How could he think it was so simple? Tom Hobb's words, "... find someone who can," kept echoing in his mind. His classmates at Cambridge would have called Tom's solution reductio ad absurdum and laughed at the gardener for missing the point. 

William had always thought, since the time he realized he favored men, that a man such as he was shouldn't marry at all, shouldn't doom some poor woman to a childless, celibate match. His cousin Emma wasn't 'some poor woman', either. She was a fine, sensible girl that he genuinely liked. Will thought Emma deserved a husband who cared for her, provided for her, and loved her as a husband loved his wife. 

But... how bad of a match would it be, if he married her? He cared for Emma, both as his cousin and as someone he actually liked spending time with. Lord knew there was no shortage of marriages where the couple could barely be civil to each other -- he could name about five off the top of his head -- and surely he and Emma would do better than those bitter pairs. 

He would have no problem providing for her, either. Chatham's income was substantial, with ample reserves and no outstanding debt. He compared himself to the inveterate gamblers, the frivolous fops, and the poor investors who'd taken fine fortunes and made them meager. He was not cut from any of those bolts, but from the conservative, fiscally-sound cloth of his father. Chatham and the other estates would do well under his leadership and he'd be able to keep Emma in a very comfortable lifestyle as well as provide any children with a suitable upbringing. 

The only thing he couldn't do was bed her and that fault was not hers. Emma's blond curls and sparkling blue eyes were lovely, but her smooth, fair complexion, generous hips, well-formed bosom, cheerful disposition, and lively sense of humor made her something of a catch before her settlement even came into the picture. More than one of his set had asked why he was dragging his feet to the altar, particularly after he returned from his grand tour. "Is she a shrew behind closed doors?" "Does she not want you?" "Is she unnaturally opposed to children?" All of their questions, oddly, had focused on what was wrong with Emma. Nothing was wrong with Emma, damn it, save that she wasn't a man.


	5. Will and Emma ride to the hunt at Drake's

Approaching the stables, William took a deep breath and tried to settle his mind. He didn't want to let the problem of his impending marriage cast a shadow over what looked to be a lovely day out hunting and going around and around the same track wasn't going to help matters anyway.

In the stable, he spotted Wilkins in the feed room, scooping out rations of grain for the broodmares. Saddle and harness horses that were to be worked that day were fed at first light, but the broodmares were fed later, after the working horses had been seen to. "Wilkins! Good morning!"

"Master Will! You're here early. Couldn't wait to head over to Drake's?"

"Ah, it's not so early as all that, Wilkins. The sun's up, after all, and we've broken fast. I came down to see how you were making out with Alabaster and to take the horses over to the drive so that Emma wouldn't have to walk down here."

"Your brownish mudball," Wilkins gestured at the attractive, fine-boned light grey mare standing in the cross ties, "is now a presentable grey. Pip and Sandy did a fine job on her." 

"They certainly did! She looks top-notch. How's Button?"

"He's nowhere near the mess that your Alabaster was, sir. Pip's got him well in hand." Wilkins regarded Will's reddened, puffy lips and flicked his eyes down to the knees of Will's breeches. They were scuffed, with a reddish smudge on the right knee that Will had apparently missed when brushing himself off... after. "You'll be accompanying Miss Emma over to Drake's, I suppose? Did you want a groom to accompany you today?"

"No, Wilkins, I think we'll be fine by ourselves."

"Very good, sir. Miss Emma's a lovely rider," offered Wilkins, "fair and kind, good with her horses." He looked pointedly at Will. "She understands their natures and works with them instead of against them. I always thought that the pair of you might..." He trailed off.

William sighed theatrically, "You and everyone else, Wilkins." He tried for a smile, with some success, then continued, "Perhaps I'll have some news on that front after today."

"Ah, that'd be why you're not wanting a groom along, then. Some things a man wants privacy for. Best of luck to you, sir." Wilkins smiled.

Will gathered up Alabaster and Button and led them back to the circular drive in front of the manor house. He didn't have to wait long for Emma to come out in her riding habit and, with the help of James and Charles, they were up and off to the hunt.

Phillip Drake's estate was six miles away by road, a ride Will and Emma typically shortened by a mile and a half because they cut through Chatham's hayfields, crossed a small creek, and rode across Weatherby's sheep pastures (with, of course, his permission and knowledge) before turning onto the final two miles of road that led to Phillip Drake's tree-lined driveway. Will let his mind drift as they turned into the first hayfield -- if they walked the horses the whole time, it'd take slightly over an hour for them to get to the meet, but Emma was comfortable riding Button at a fairly sedate trot. Probably they'd get to Drake's in about three-quarters of an hour. He had, he thought to himself, forty-five minutes in which to propose to Emma, explain about his preferences, propose a radical solution to her, get her agreement, and...

"You're unusually quiet, Will," noted Emma. "Last year when we rode to meets, you were charming and talkative on the way there and back. This is quite unlike you. Is something the matter?"

"No, I-- Yes."

"William," said Emma, "That was singularly uninformative. Try again."

"Father's dying." His voice sounded hollow even to him, the words low and hopeless.

"Yes. He's been losing weight most of September and October. I thought you knew."

"I didn't see-- didn't notice. He's always been there for me and I guess I expected him to continue on forever."

"When did you find out?"

"He talked to me about it on Thursday, in part because he'd like to see me settled with a wife before he dies," said William.

"That's not an unusual thing for a father to want from his son," Emma pointed out, "and it can hardly be coming as a shock to you. We've been expected to marry each other since I was born."

"I know. If only I'd had more Grenville girls to choose from, but there's just you and your annoying little sister in a sea of brothers..."

"William! Abigail is only twelve -- she's not remotely marriageable."

"I know, and for her age, she's not even terribly annoying. I was trying to lighten the mood."

"Didn't really work, did it?"

"No."

They rode on for a bit in silence. Emma spoke first, "I haven't pushed you to offer for me because I figured you would get 'round to it when you were done travelling. But you've been back long enough for the first foals from your Egyptian Barb to hit the ground and grow into weanlings, and you've said nothing." She looked down at her gloved hands on the reins. "Now your father's dying, trying to force your hand, and you've still not offered for mine. Instead, you've told me what your father wants." She swallowed and looked straight at Will, her expression open. "Do you want me?"

"Emma, I..." William's mouth opened and closed, but he couldn't find the words. Emma waited. William blinked hard, swallowed, and tried again. "Emma, I want you to do me the honor of becoming my wife. I want to go through life with you by my side."

"All right, Will. That'll do for a start. I accept your offer and agree to marry you." Emma gathered up her reins and nudged Button into a trot. "Now step it up, or we won't make it in time for the stirrup cup." William had no option but to trot alongside her, wondering how on earth Emma'd accepted a marriage proposal that didn't include undying love or at least the suggestion of desire. 

The pair of them made good time through Chatham's stubbled fields, slowed to a walk to splash through the shallow creek that divided Chatham's lands from Weatherby's, and picked up the pace again through Weatherby's pastures of placid sheep. The constant trotting made conversation somewhat difficult and William took the opportunity to fret about the rest of the conversation he needed to have with Emma, the part that came AFTER 'will you do me the honor', the part about not desiring women and so forth. And so forth? Hell, he hadn't even figured out how to talk about the not-desiring-women part. Mind and stomach churning over how to broach the topic, Will hopped on and off 'Baster to handle the gates without even noticing them and before he'd gotten anything straight in his mind, they came out on the road to Drake's. He was out of time.

"Emma, I-- I need to tell you something," said Will.

"I should hope so," replied Emma. "You've been lost in thought since I accepted your proposal. Something still isn't sitting right in your mind. Let's have it."

"I don't... I can't... women." Will realized that this was not the most coherent utterance he'd ever put together. He looked at Emma's clear blue eyes, hoping for comprehension and finding none. "I prefer bedding men," he said, words tumbling out so that to Emma they sounded more "Ipafirbedinmen". Emma's face showed some impatience, but she didn't say anything, just waited patiently, infuriatingly, for William to clarify himself further. "I. Prefer. Bedding. Men." He bit the words out, each one delivered tight-lipped in its own space, and then looked away, not wanting to see the look on her face when she finally understood what he was trying to say.

"Yes, of course you do," said Emma calmly. William snapped his head around to look at her as she continued, "I'm glad you know this about yourself and impressed that you are brave enough to say it aloud to me." Emma smiled gently at William, who was questioning his hearing and his sanity, and she added, "Don't worry. I'm still going to marry you."

"No. You can't. Emma, I don't just prefer men. I can't... with women. I've tried. If we marry, there will be no marital relations, no children."

"Will, every interaction we've ever had has been chaste, proper, and entirely free from sexual desire. Your lack of interest in my sex is not news to me. However, I see no reason my womb should stay barren just because you won't spend between my legs." William's jaw dropped to hear Emma speak so plainly about matters he'd been given to understand were not common knowledge among unmarried young ladies of quality. "I think," continued Emma, "that we should find someone, agreeable to both of us, to warm my bed and give me babies that we can raise as our own."

Good heavens, she sounded like Tom: "... find someone who will." It couldn't be that simple. Nothing was ever that simple. He retreated to propriety. "You'd have me fill Chatham with bastards! Are you daft?"

"William. Dear. If you won't lie with me, then someone else must or I'll die barren and you might as well never have bothered marrying. If it's a man of our choosing, whom we agree upon, and if you claim the babies as your own, are they really bastards?"

"Of course they'll be bastards. They'll be the fruit of some other seed, not born of Pitt blood."

"Well, they won't be Pitt blood," agreed Emma, "but they'll be half-Grenville and if we choose our man wisely, they'll at least resemble you. If you accept them as yours, none will be the wiser."

"This is preposterous. No gentleman would let his children be claimed by another!" 

"We will probably be forced to select a non-gentleman, Will. He'll need to be in our household for the duration without causing comment. The easiest way to manage that is to have him be part of the household staff -- so, a commoner."

"Emma, you're quite beyond the pale. This is madness!"

(This Is SPARTA!)

"If you have a better solution, I'm open to hearing it. And what about your needs?" 

"My... what?" William felt he'd quite gone 'round the bend.

"Your needs, your desires. Do you have... someone?" Emma asked gently.

William blushed scarlet. "Yes, since I've been back from Egypt."

"That's good. You should have a steady presence in your life who can do for you what I cannot."

"Are you," started William, reasonably calmly, "seriously telling me that you intend to consent to and accomodate my-- my perversion? That you know what I am, are set to marry me anyway, and are here and now proposing a plan to ensure the succession of the earldom and provide me with the illusion of a happy married life?" William's voice rose in volume as he went on, until he was shouting at the end, a vein bulging in his temple. Alabaster pranced sideways, unhappy with the tension she felt in his seat.

"Well, yes," said Emma evenly, "though I am hoping to do better than just the illusion of a happy married life. I'd like to achieve an actual happy married life." 

"You're fit for Bedlam!"

Emma set aside her calmness and spoke sharply, "You're being unreasonable, Will. Have you stopped to consider for a bare second that mine is not at all the reaction you were expecting from 'I prefer bedding men'? No. No you have not." She glared at him. "How think you, William Fitzgerald Pitt, that I came to you equipped with full knowledge of your preferences and a plan to arrange for us a happy and fulfilling life in spite of them?" He stared back at her, stunned.

"I... I have no idea. Emma, you are shockingly well-informed about things I do not think genteel young ladies should know anything about. In this, I am a mariner without sextant or compass." William looked honestly bewildered.

"You never met her, nor did I, but my mother's older sister, Beatrix, married a man with preferences such as yours. However, where you are a sensible, honest, and kind man, he was irrational, deceitful, and cruel. Beatrix's husband never admitted to his desires, never touched his wife, and never brooked discussion of their nonexistent relations. The few times she tried to speak to him about it, he beat her bloody and called her a whore."

"He beat her?"

"Yes. She wrote my mother repeatedly, despairing of how helpless she felt, how little she could do for her husband, and how empty the house was without children. There was nothing anyone could do; she was his wife. After five years in that loveless and uncompanionable hell, she leapt off the second-story balcony and died three days later, shattered by the fall."

William looked at Emma. "I'm sorry, I didn't... I thought Beatrix died from a fever."

"Everyone did. That's what we told people. Admitting that she killed herself of shame and loneliness because of her husband's disinterest in women would have been unbearable."

"That's horrible." 

"Yes, it was. Anyway, by the time you'd finished at Cambridge, my mother had noticed that you were very like your uncle William. I never asked what made her so sure about you, but she has maintained these many years that you are a man who prefers men to women."

"So... she's known all along?" William thought he had been so, so careful. Apparently he hadn't been careful enough to fool a concerned mother who knew what she was looking for. "And she told you?" Emma nodded. "Why are you agreeing to marry me if you know my tastes lie elsewhere?"

"You're still a good man, Will, one who will be a good husband and father... just not quite in the typical way. We get on well together, you and I, and I enjoy your company," said Emma, adding "There's quite a few couples in the world that are a worse fit than we two."

"I can't believe you're not angry."

"I've known your tastes longer than you've known them yourself, William. Although," she paused thoughtfully, "it wasn't until last year that I decided you'd have to admit your preferences to me before I stood beside you at the altar." 

"Emma, this has not been the talk I was expecting to have," admitted William. "This has been an entirely different talk, with rather fewer hysterics than I'd expected and quite a bit more to think about."

"You say that like you regret not getting the hysterics part."

"No, no," laughed William, "but I do need to turn this over in my head. I don't quite know what to make of this turn of events."

Emma smiled. "Take your time, Will. Marriage is a serious business, best not rushed into." With that, she turned Button into Drake's beautifully-gravelled drive and urged him back into a trot. "Come on, we don't want to be late! Remember, I've got to get Bella to charm Weatherby into coming with us on the hilltops."

\--------------------

Will and Emma trotted up the drive and assembled in front of Phillip Drake's elegant manor house just in time for the stirrup cup -- the round of drinks and socializing on the lawn in front of the house before riding to the start of the hunt. Emma located Bella and Georgette in the crowd and guided Button over to them, leaving William to greet his friend Phillip.

"Bella, Georgette! Sorry I'm late, William and I got sidetracked on the ride over."

Bella raised her eyebrows. "Oh? Did he offer, then, finally?"

Emma smiled, "He may have."

"And you said yes?" Georgette had ten pounds riding on William wedding Emma before Christmas, a wager with her sister Catherine.

"I may have, conditionally."

"Emma! You've been waiting forever for him to ask. Conditionally? Whatever for?" Bella was incredulous.

"Ah, Bella, she mustn't let him think he won her so easily," threw in Georgette. "Better to make him work for it a little, right, Emma?"

"Something like that," said Emma vaguely, "And you'll be the first to know the moment actual congratulations are in order." She turned toward Bella, and continued brightly, "But right now, Bella, I need you to charm Lord Weatherby into helping us with our plan to observe the hunt from the hilltops. Will says that he's the best person to accompany us and explain all the goings-on in the field, if only he would agree to do so." 

"Oh, I just saw him over by the huntsman," said Bella. "I'll head over right now." A few minutes later, she returned with Lord Weatherby in tow. Weatherby, a greying gentleman whose well-cut coat couldn't disguise his tendency to portliness, sat his bright bay as a born horseman, guiding the nervous gelding through the crowd with near-invisible cues.

"Miss Grenville! Mrs. Drake! Fine morning, isn't it?" Weatherby spoke a bit louder than was necessary, partly because of his expansive personality and partly because his hearing was going. "Mrs. Howe here tells me that you ladies are not planning to retire to the house for the duration of the hunt. Quite extraordinary! She says, if I heard her aright, that you plan to follow along behind and observe things from the hilltops."

"Yes -- we've thrilled to tales from the hunts and we would like to try watching in person this year. Obviously, leaping over fences at the gallop is out of the question, but if we pick our ground carefully, we should be able to see the hounds working and the field giving chase. My... William suggested that we ask you to guide us to vantages and explain the action in the field to us as it happens. Please, we'd be so thankful for your help." Emma did the talking but both she and Georgette tried their best wide-eyed hopeful expressions.

"I'd not be much of a gentleman if I turned away from ladies in need of assistance! As well," he added, "Ember here has not been in the hunt field before, just got him at the end of summer, and he seems a bit unsettled today. Perhaps he would benefit from being a little further away from the real excitement, at least until he becomes more accustomed to the chase."

"Wonderful," said Georgette, "We are also taking Bella's groom along to manage the gates for us so that we won't be distracted from following the action of the field."

"You ladies have thought this through, I see," smiled Weatherby. "I spoke with the huntsman and he said he was planning to cast the hounds in the roughs along Drake's long field. A good place to watch will be the round-top pasture with the heifers in it. If we head out now, we can get there before the hounds start to work the covert."

"Already you are making good on your offer of assistance, sir," said Bella smiling. "Please, lead the way."


	6. Will talks to Standish

The hunt, the late luncheon, and the hunt ball conspired to keep Will and Emma from returning home until quite late. By the time they returned to Chatham, it was pitch dark. The earl had long since given up waiting for them and retired. Will and Emma weren't long behind him, exhausted as they were from a long day ahorseback and a full evening of dancing and socializing at the hunt ball.

As Will closed the door to his rooms, Standish jerked awake and stood up, gathering his wits about him.

"Sorry, Standish, didn't mean to take you by surprise," said Will, stumbling over his words a little.

"Nothing to be sorry for, sir, I just dozed off. I take it Drake's party ran late again this year?" replied Standish sleepily.

"You know it did. He does put on quite an affair, though, and I hate to leave early because the absolute best stories happen rather late in the festivities."

"Hrm. It is my sincere hope that you are merely observing the stories and not featuring prominently in them, sir."

"You know me better than that, Standish. Nary a whiff of scandal about my name," said Will, gesturing grandly with his arm at, presumably, the nonexistent whiff of scandal.

"Did you have a good hunt today, sir?" Standish inquired casually, taking Willam's jacket. 

"The hounds had a couple of good runs, especially for the start of the season. 'Baster ran well -- she was plenty fit for the chase." Will paused to raise his chin for Standish to undo his cravat. "Oh, and Emma's plan to watch the hunt was a smashing success. The ladies had a grand time watching while Weatherby pontificated happily." He slipped his braces off his shoulders and untucked his shirt. "In fact, some of the other ladies, not quite as brave as our Emma, want to go with the hilltop crowd next week now that they've seen how well it went. It was all they could talk about at the hunt ball." Will took off his shirt, only struggling a little as it went over his head, and held it out for Standish.

"Ah. And how did it go with Miss Emma?" Standish took the proffered shirt and hung it up, smoothing the lines. Will rinsed his face and hands in the basin and dried them on the towel before replying.

"Ye gods, does this house run on gossip?" Will sat and held out a foot for Standish to help him with his boot.

"Couldn't say, sir." Standish grinned crookedly, ducking his head so that it would be less visible, "So you did offer for her?" He tugged the boot and its mate, then rose to put them aside.

"I did. She said yes, mostly." Boots out of the way, William stood to undo his dinner trousers.

At that, Standish's hazel eyes met his, considering a moment. "Mostly? That's surprising. I would have thought Miss Emma was wholeheartedly in favor of the match."

"So did I. She surprised me today." He handed his trousers to Standish, trading them for his nightshirt.

"Oh?"

"Standish, she... she was entirely too reasonable. I don't know what to do."

"Couldn't you be reasonable in return?" Standish had a fantastic poker face and he was using every bit of it.

"Damn it man, I told her I didn't... fancy women and, worse, that I never have."

"Ah." Standish busied himself hanging and smoothing clothing that did not particularly need to be hung or smoothed.

"You seem unsurprised."

"I am your valet, sir," explained Standish patiently, "and I've been your valet since your return from Egypt a year and a half ago. I dress you in the morning and undress you in the evening, unless you dismiss me for reasons of privacy. In a year and a half, you have not done so once. You are a healthy man, nearly thirty, and you do not, so far as I am aware, bed any women at all. Somewhat infrequently, however, you come back from the gardens with brick dust on your knees."

"Brick dust?" Will looked as confused as he sounded.

"It's the very devil to get out of buckskin, sir," said Standish, brushing the nap of Will's dinner jacket before hanging it to air. "Also, if I may say so, you look quite relaxed and well-pleased when you return in that state."

"So you've known... but you never mentioned it before." Will sat down on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. 

"It was not appropriate for me to mention it, sir."

"Does everyone know?" Will's voice was somewhat muffled because he was still looking down at the floor.

"We do not discuss it, sir. If I had to hazard a guess, Hensley knows. Your Tom, obviously. And likely Wilkins down in the stables. He's a very observant man."

"Oh. All right, then. Emma is willing to marry me as long as I find her some other man to take to bed and get her with child."

"Miss Emma is very sensible."

"What? You're siding with her?"

"Sir, you are your father's only son. If you do not have heirs, the estate will be lost to some distant cousin. Heirs are important."

Will let out an exasperated sigh and flopped back on the bed. "If I find her some other man, they won't be MY heirs."

"They will be if you claim them. Who's to say otherwise?"

"And where would I find such a man, to live in my house, bed my wife, and provide me with heirs?"

"Well, Hensley does all the hiring for Chatham," said Standish carefully. 

"He's my father's steward!"

"Yes, but he does an excellent job," said Standish a bit stiffly. "If I were you, sir, I'd look to Hensley. He's adept at selecting the right man for any job and he's very discreet." 

"What are you trying to say? Out with it, now," said Will, irritated.

Standish gave up on subtlety. "He hired Tom Hobb, shortly before you came back from Egypt," he said flatly.

William went white. "That will be all, Standish."

"Very good, sir." Standish left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Will flopped back onto the bed and stared at the dark ceiling. It was a long time until he fell asleep.

\----------------------

Will was waiting at the top of the stairs the following morning when Emma came out of the Peony Room. "Good morning, dear," he said, grinning a bit. 

"Good morning, Will," replied Emma. "What's the dear for?"

"If we're to marry, we should look at least somewhat fond of each other." He reached for her arm, which Emma let him take.

"You've decided, then?"

"Yes. Your terms are quite reasonable -- even my valet thinks so. Father would like to see me married before the holidays, so we haven't any time to waste."

"That isn't very much time to get things arranged. Also, you told Standish?" 

"I didn't have to tell him; he already knew."

"Well, there's nothing for it and if he hasn't made a stir up till now, you've probably nothing to worry about. Shall we tell Uncle at breakfast?"

"Might as well. He'll be expecting to hear something -- I told him I would offer for you while we were hunting."

"Good, good. Are you ready?" Emma's eyes found his, searching for reassurance.

"Ready as ever," replied William, hoping he sounded confident. The pair of them headed down to breakfast where John was waiting for them to join him.

"Good morning! Will, Emma, how was the hunt? I tried to wait up to hear how things went with your new plan, Emma, but it got quite late and you hadn't returned, so I gave up and retired." John rang for breakfast to be served and they sat down at the table.

"It was wonderful! Lord Weatherby decided to accompany us and he was a huge help by explaining what the hounds and huntsmen were doing and directing us to the best vantage points. Bella, Georgette and I had a wonderful time." gushed Emma. "It was a glorious day for it and we had so much fun." 

"I'm glad it was a success. You had a solid plan, though, and I've found that a solid plan generally helps things turn out well," said John approvingly. Turning to Will, he added, "How did your day go, Will?"

"It was grand. 'Baster was in fine fettle, kept at the front of the field with Drake's gelding. She leapt everything I aimed her at." William grinned at his father, "And that other matter also turned out well. Miss Emma has agreed to become my wife." 

"Congratulations! You've made an old man very happy this morning! I'll post the banns and we'll arrange a date with the parish for the wedding. Probably we can have you wed before the holidays."

"So soon?" asked Emma.

"I don't see why not," said the earl, "My dear boy has been forever about settling down and now that he's offered, I intend to see him married forthwith!"

"Father has a point," said Will, looking chagrined. "It's time and then some that I should be married. Settling down will do me a world of good and I see no need to wait -- we already know each other quite well and are suited to each other." Will smiled encouragingly at Emma.

"You're right, I suppose. It isn't as though I will know you better for the waiting. I just... two days ago I was wondering if you would offer at all and now it seems as though I'll be setting up housekeeping before Christmas."

"Set up housekeeping? Surely not elsewhere -- you'll move in here," said John expansively, "place has been wanting a woman's touch since my Mary died. As the heir, Will should live at Chatham and it isn't as though we've no room."

"I hadn't thought to impose, Uncle," said Emma, "but you have a point. Chatham is spacious."

"Spacious? My word, we rattle around in here like two peas in a serving dish! You'll be welcome company in the old place," laughed John.

"If you're sure," said Emma. At John's nod, she continued, "If I may, I'd like the Peony Room, but without the Peony wallpaper. It's a bit too much pink for me."

"I'll have Hensley look into having it repapered. Do you have a preference for pattern, or would you like to look at some samples to see if anything catches your eye?"

Will relaxed as his father and Emma chatted about decorating her rooms and the rest of breakfast passed uneventfully.

\-------------


	7. Hobb dumps Will; Will confers with Hensley

A few days later, Will strolled through the gardens and came upon Tom Hobb working in the perennial bed. "Mister Hobb?" 

"Yes, sir?" Tom stood and faced Will, his face closed and carefully blank.

"Tom?" Will glanced around, to see if someone had appeared suddenly in the walkway along the perennial border, but the garden was empty save for the two of them. "There's nobody around. It's just me." Tom did not relax or reply. Will tried again, "Is something wrong?"

"It's Miss Emma, sir," said Tom.

"Emma? What's the matter with Emma?" asked Will.

"You're engaged to her," Tom said stiffly. 

"And?" said Will, somewhat testily. 

"And I can't disrespect the promise you've made to Miss Emma." Tom sounded like he thought this should be obvious to even the slow-of-thinking.

"Is that what's got you acting so strangely?" Will's question was sharper than he intended, but it did not cow Thomas Hobb.

"Yes, sir. Now that you're engaged, any arrangement or... contact between us would be inappropriate."

"But you know that I can't, with her."

"So you've said. But when you marry, you promise to bind yourself to one other, forever, and to keep that covenant before the Lord. I will not, indeed, cannot stand between you and your wife-to-be," said Tom. He sounded like he was expecting to be dismissed from service for saying it, but he said it nonetheless.

"But... not a week ago you suggested that if I could not, with her, that I should find someone else who could?"

"I did, sir."

"And now you're standing here and telling me that we can't continue on as we have been?"

"Yes, sir."

"You make no sense, Tom. How can she have someone else while I cannot? I don't understand you!"

"Whatever you and Miss Emma agree to do between yourselves is not my concern. My own conscience regarding marriage will not allow me to stand between you." Will met Tom's clear, brown eyes and held his gaze a hair too long for comfort. Tom did not waver. Will sighed and looked away.

"We're done, then, Tom?" asked Will dully, looking into the distance.

"It would seem so, sir. Shall I pack my things?"

"What?" Will snapped back to look at Tom.

"To leave my position at Chatham, sir. I expect you'll be dismissing me."

"No! God, man, what do you take me for?" Will controlled his voice with a visible effort and tried again, "Don't be absurd. You do an admirable job with the gardens -- they've never looked better. Of course you shall stay on and, if you want it, take the job from Smythe when he retires." At that, Tom relaxed slightly. Will continued, "I shall miss you, but I understand your position. For what it's worth, I am truly fond of Miss Emma and do not aim to hurt her during our marriage."

"I wish the pair of you every happiness, sir, however you manage it."

"Thank you, Tom." Will squared his shoulders and walked out of the perennial bed. He did not look back. Tom watched him until he was out of sight, then knelt back down to finish out the row of peonies, taking off the brown, withered stems that had run their course so that the coming spring's fat, red peony tips would not be impeded by spent growth.

\-----------------------------------------------

Will sat in the library, idly thumbing through Mansfield Park's opening pages while he waited for Hensley to show up. Damn it all, he'd forgotten the characters since his last attempt at the novel and he'd have to start at the beginning to get Lady Bertram and Mrs. Price and so on straight in his head. He settled in to the task, since he'd told Emma he would, and had gotten to the point where Fanny Price arrived at the Bertram's when Hensley cleared his throat politely. 

"You sent for me, Sir?" 

"I did, Hensley. I..." Will paused, uncertain. He closed Mansfield Park and set the novel aside. Best get on with it, he thought to himself. "I need to know why you hired Thomas Hobb." 

"Sir?" said Hensley, looking the very picture of concern. "Is there a problem with Mr. Hobb's performance?" 

"No, that's not..." Will was exhausted by the number of hopelessly difficult conversations he'd been having lately. He sighed heavily and got on with it, bluntly. "Did you hire Thomas Hobb to whore himself to me?" 

"No, sir," answered Hensley smoothly, his professional demeanor covering any hint of surprise. "I hired a second gardener because Smythe was aging and couldn't handle the work by himself anymore." 

"But Standish specifically said you'd hired Hobb right before I came back from Egypt. He said it like it meant something." 

"He is correct. I hired Mr. Hobb because his qualifications as gardener met Chatham's needs and because he is inclined towards men, as you are." Hensley never hurried, but, at the look on Will's face, he did continue promptly. "His inclination towards men was a factor in his hiring, but it wasn't his sole qualification." 

"You hired a man to have sex with me?" William was struggling to hold on to his temper. 

"No," said Hensley firmly. "I did not. I hired a man who, IF he liked you, IF he wanted to, and IF you offered, would say yes instead of running screaming to the constabulary. If he didn't like you or didn't want to, he'd have refused kindly and politely. And if you'd never offered, you would never have known Mr. Hobb's inclination. Having sex with you was not ever a condition of his employment." 

"So you didn't hire him to bed me but you did ensure the path before me was strewn with petals. How dare you meddle--!" 

"Sir. There is nothing wrong with my making available unto you an appealing, compassionate, discreet man of good character whose preferences align with your own." Hensley's tone was even and gentle, his face calm and untroubled. Everything about him presented a rock of calmness against which the wave of Will's anger crashed uselessly. "Nobody forced you to take up with him. He was free to say no if you weren't to his tastes. I simply put Mr. Hobb into your path as a possible match for you." Will relaxed a little. Hensley pressed his advantage and his argument. "If you had been Sir's daughter, Sir would have seen to it that you were surrounded with suitable bachelors so that you might select an appropriate husband. Would you have thought that overstepping the bounds of parental care?" 

"No, of course not," snapped Will, "But keeping your daughter from marrying an absolute bounder is diff--" 

"And if you'd been another sort of man," interrupted Hensley, "One who somehow found the delightful Miss Emma unacceptable, Sir would have arranged for you to meet other suitable young ladies, correct?" 

"Yes, but..." Will's temper was fading in the face of Hensley's calm explanation. 

"How is this so different?" 

"Fine, I'll concede that it's not very different," said Will, holding up a hand to forestall further objections, "but you didn't do this on my father's orders, did you?" 

"Well, no," admitted Hensley, looking as discomfited as Will had ever seen him. "As far as I am aware, he knows nothing of your preferences. I thought it best not to inform him prematurely." Will stared at Hensley, who continued, "Your time at Harrow might have been nothing more than schoolboy urges overflowing a pond with no natural outlet. At that time, I wasn't sure. Later, after you'd tried women and met with abject failure, I did not see any point in telling Sir about something that would break his heart and could not be changed. But now you've offered for Miss Emma? 

"Yes. And she accepted me, in spite of the fact that she knows my preferences. She wants children, though. She says we should find someone to..." 

Hensley cut him off. "Miss Emma... knew? That's interesting. She's being unexpectedly clear-headed about the situation, too. I knew she was clever, but... " Hensley looked thoughtful a minute, then continued, "Her aunt Beatrix. Yes. That would make sense." 

"She also asked about my needs. I told her I had someone... but now I don't." Will looked down at his hands. "Tom won't have me anymore, not since I offered for Miss Emma. He says he will not disrespect Miss Emma or the promise I've made her." 

"That's his right, sir. When I hired him, I made it quite clear that he was not expected or required to be with you in that capacity if it went against his own feelings, beliefs, or desires." Hensley looked thoughtful. "However, now you are unpartnered and that is a problem -- it's unreasonable to expect you to go through life without a bedmate, especially if Miss Emma has one, but you can't very well go slumming in the alleys of London. People would talk." 

"Have you a better idea? Going to hire another gardener?" Will looked like he regretted the words as soon as he heard them aloud, but he couldn't very well pull them back. 

"I think someone who's to be in your household permanently would work best," said Hensley as if he hadn't heard Will's snippy dig. "Someone who has access to your rooms and would be spending a fair amount of time with you naturally, like a steward or a valet, would be ideal. Your man Standish prefers... clothes, I think, but he does have an eye for fashion and you get on with him reasonably. It wouldn't do to turn him out for a bedmate and leave you to dress yourself. Again, people would talk." Hensley smirked a bit, which Will decided not to notice. "Perhaps a steward, one I'm to train to take over the estates for when Sir John is no longer with us. That might work." 

"But you're a fine steward," objected Will. "I've no desire to find someone else -- you do an excellent job keeping things running smoothly here and at the other estates." 

Hensley smiled, "It is good to be appreciated, but Sir has agreed to settle me with a fair sum on his passing. I intend to retire to the country at that time, allowing, of course, for a smooth transition to the new steward." 

"Oh," said William. 

"We will also need someone for Miss Emma, though, and a man who is allowed in your joint rooms would have to be very close to you, again, a steward or a valet. Miss Emma, of course, cannot employ male staff even if she would like one." Hensley paused infinitesimally, a ghost of a smirk on his face. "It would simplify matters considerably if we only had to fit one person into your household. Less explaining to do, and all. There are men who are equally functional and enthusiastic about both men and women. Could you and Miss Emma share a man such as that?" 

William sighed. "If I'm to pursue this madness, I'll jump in with both feet. I'm not opposed to the idea but I'll have to talk to Emma and see what she says." 

"Very good, sir. Please inform me when you've decided. And will that be all?" 

"Yes. And Hensley?" 

"Sir?" 

"Thank you." 

"You're welcome, sir."


	8. Will talks to Emma at Ivy Hall

Will rode over to Ivy Hall the following morning after breakfast. Less than two miles from Chatham, the home of the Grenvilles was smaller than his own, but immaculately maintained and prosperous. He trotted Alabaster up the graveled drive, dismounted, and handed her reins to George, the footman.

"Good morning, George."

"Good morning, Sir. And congratulations on your impending nuptials with Miss Emma!"

Will chuckled. "At long last, yes. Thank you. When you take Alabaster to the stables, slip her tack and throw her some hay but don't turn her out. Miss Emma and I may be going riding shortly, if she agrees to it, and I don't want 'Baster to roll."

"Very good, sir. They're expecting you in the house, I saw you top the far hill and told Bates that you were coming." George led Alabaster off to the stables.

William climbed the steps to the heavy front door, which swung open just when he got there. "Good morning, Sir William," said Bates. 

"Good morning, Bates. Could you tell Miss Emma that..." began Will.

"Good morning, Will!" said Emma cheerfully as she came in from the morning room. She was wearing her brown riding habit (it was a favorite of hers) and continued, "It's such a lovely day, I hope you don't mind if we go for a ride."

"Not at all," smiled Will, "I was just about to ask you the same. If we hurry, we should be able to get to the stables before they've slipped 'Baster's tack." He offered her his arm, which she took, and they headed right back out the door.

Emma and Will got their horses sorted and set out on a leisurely tour of the fields around Ivy Hall. They chatted idly about the upcoming hunt at Batcher's until they were well away from anyone who could overhear.

"So," said Emma, judging they were far enough away for privacy, "Have you made any progress on the problem of finding a suitable man?"

"We got engaged a bare four days ago," said Will, "so there hasn't been time for any actual progress. I did talk to Hensley about it, on the advice of my valet."

"Just what sort of conversations do you have with your valet, Will?" It was not the question he was expecting Emma to ask, so it took him a minute to process. 

"With Standish? Usually, very sensible and helpful ones. He's got a good head on his shoulders when he's not using it to tell me which waistcoat to wear."

"Fair enough. Isn't Hensley your father's steward?"

"Well, yes. He does the hiring for Chatham and our other estates, and he had a most intriguing suggestion," started Will. He didn't get to finish.

"You're going to HIRE someone?" It was a good thing Button was a fairly solid citizen of the equine world. Will was not sure Alabaster would have tolerated that volume or the regrettably shrill tone from her rider.

"You were the one who suggested he be part of the household staff as a way to keep him around the place without causing comment. And you're correct -- it's not as though we can have a guest who stays at Chatham for years on end," said Will.

"Yes, but it sounds so... crass," said Emma. "It's like we're hiring him for... that."

Will sighed. "We are, at least partly."

Emma's jaw dropped and she stared at Will, speechless. Will sighed, again.

"When you were imagining how it would go, did you think we were not going to pay him or did you think he'd draw a wage and just hang about the place without doing any visible work? Which of those circumstances do you suppose would cause less gossip among the rest of the servants?" 

"I didn't-- I didn't think about it like that," admitted Emma, "but you needn't be so sharp at me about it."

"That came out worse than I was intending. I'm sorry, and I didn't think of it that way either, not until Hensley spoke about hiring someone for a real position, like being my valet or acting as steward for Chatham," said Will, "but when he did, I realized that it made a great deal of sense."

"How do you mean?"

"The whole point of having our man employed as household staff is to obscure his real purpose and discourage gossip, right?" Emma nodded cautiously. "So, he needs to perform official, visible duties for us and he needs to receive an official wage. These duties and wages give him legitimacy." Will halted Alabaster and waited for Emma to stop Button before he met her eyes and continued. "The legitimate position and wages also give him the freedom to stay or go. If he were a... kept man, laboring for no pay at a job we could not admit in polite society, he'd have no money, no references, no work history, and no chance of finding gainful employment elsewhere. If he ever wanted to leave, he would lack the means to do so. A man working under such conditions would be no better than a slave."

"It wouldn't be like that!" Emma was horrified at the suggestion that they'd enslave a man for her. Button, for his part, took no interest in the rights of men and used the halt as an opportunity to snack on the scenery.

"I'm not saying it would, but paying him a fair wage for an honest position goes a long way toward ensuring that our man stays at Chatham not because he is unable to leave but because he chooses to be there."

"I see," conceded Emma. "And you've set Hensley to locating someone to fill the position?" She gathered up Button and nudged him along.

"Not quite," said Will hesitantly. He loosened the reins for Alabaster so that she'd move off beside Button. "There's one other thing...," he trailed off.

"What thing?"

"I, er, no longer have someone. When he heard of the engagement, he told me that he couldn't dishonor you or the institution of marriage by continuing to see me."

"Oh, Will. I'm sorry to hear that."

"Not as sorry as I was," said Will, a bit chagrined. "He's a good man, though, and I can't fault him for his conscience. It does leave me in a lurch, though."

"Are you going to look for another?" asked Emma.

"I was planning on it. During the very odd conversation I had with Hensley regarding the necessity of him hiring someone to bed you, I mentioned in passing that I was currently unpartnered. At that juncture, he suggested that we find one man who'd bed us both." Will blushed scarlet.

"That's possible?" Emma had never heard of such a thing.

"Not at one time, I shouldn't think," said Will, "but yes, some men enjoy both women and men as sexual partners."

"Oh."

"Hensley suggested that it might simplify the hiring if we could consent to share one man. I told him I'd have to talk to you about it before deciding anything."

"As I said before, it'd have to be someone we agreed upon. And both of us should find him desireable," said Emma. "Oh, and he needs to look something like you."

"Hensley is aware of the appearance issue. Other than that, if you have any absolute requirements, you will need to inform him of them so that he can seek out appropriate candidates. He is, it turns out, already reasonably aware of my tastes in men."

"Do I want to know?" inquired Emma carefully.

"Probably not."

"All right, then. I'll make a list of considerations for Hensley. You can pass them along to him with my consent and then we'll see what he brings us to consider. With that out of the way, shall we head back? The family's been wanting to congratulate you and I did make off with you before any of them got the chance."

\---------------

After staying through lunch, Will rode home from Ivy Hall, having survived the congratulations of Emma's herd of brothers (there were only four, but they seemed like more for all that they crowded 'round and didn't seem to have indoor voices) and the giggles of her younger sister Abigail. Emma's mother Jane stood back and let her boys get their enthusiasm worked out, regarding the goings-on with a faint smile. Will glanced up from the backslapping and handshaking and "High time, we were starting to think you'd never..." to meet her eyes and he was pretty sure she'd nodded slightly. It could have been worse. Emma's father was in London, seeing to his affairs, so Will didn't have to go through the "take good care of my daughter" talk. At some point in the confusion, Emma managed to slip away for a moment and generate a note for him to pass to Hensley which she tucked discreetly into his waistcoat pocket when she sat beside him at lunch.

Away from the house, he fetched out the tiny square of paper and opened it up, trusting Alabaster to stay to the path, to read Emma's considerations for a man.

"Taller than Will." That one hurt. Will was of fair height, not a giant among men, but certainly no stub either. It wasn't as though he were insufficient. But, he reminded himself, she was not picking someone else because he wasn't good enough. She was picking someone else because he wouldn't have her. Her considerations were not his inadequacies, just her preferences.

"Kind." Not what he would have picked, but also not a bad trait for a partner. He wondered how Hensley would assess a man's kindness. Probably this one would be harder to get a feel for than whether or not the prospective fellow was taller than Will.

"Well-made, not likely to run to fat." Another one he agreed on for a partner, but the 'not likely' thing also rather hard, in Will's opinion, to gauge. He was suddenly glad he was not the person in charge of doing the hiring.

"Not a drinker." He hadn't realized Emma had views on alcohol, but her older brother Andrew did spend more than a reasonable amount of time in his cups. Perhaps she had reason for listing this as one of her criteria.

She'd written nothing else on the paper, which he refolded and tucked safely away for the journey home. 

Will considered what it would be like to pick someone, sight unseen, to know intimately, to have children with, and to live with for many years. He wasn't sure he could restrict himself to four qualifications in that circumstance, but he wondered if a whole novel of qualifications would find a person any more suited. He sighed. Hensley had done well finding Tom Hobb, but whether or not he could do as well again was another matter entirely.

He let Alabaster amble on, the steady rhythm of her walk relaxing him as he let his mind run through the very odd circumstances of his impending marriage and arrangement. How were he and Emma to know that Hensley's choice would suit them? In ordinary marriage, he knew, one hoped for the best and prepared for the worst. Most often, people seemed to wind up with something in the middle, regardless of what their initial expectations had been. Will was no stranger to visibly unhappy marriages or, for that matter, to marriages which dutifully produced the heir and spare before relegating the relationship to the dustbin of bare civility and social obligations. He didn't think that their man, his and Emma's, should be a dutiful relationship of the sort that resulted from the unbreakable bond of marriage contracts and conjoined estates. First off, their man wouldn't be married to either of them. Second, there were no property considerations to, well, consider. A steward or valet or whatever could be replaced if found unsuitable to the position, even though it might be tedious and difficult to hire a new one. For this man, thought Will, we should be sure he's a good fit before making him an offer. 

He laughed aloud, startling his grey mare, "A good fit, indeed! I'm as mad as Emma for thinking that's likely to take place." Hensley was not likely to bring in man after man for Will -- and Emma, he thought with a shock -- to try out before offering one of them the position. A string of men parading through Chatham would cause no end of comment and what of the unsuccessful hopefuls? How would they be kept from bandying about the entirely too delicious news of the sort of position the Pitts were hiring for over at Chatham Hall?

Will set the question of hiring aside -- it was Hensley's problem, not his -- and he'd let the man get on with it. He gathered Alabaster into a trot, then set her to canter to the top of the hill where he could see Chatham's lands spread out before him. He loved this view, had since he was a child, and was suddenly glad that he'd soon have children, more or less, that he could raise to love it as he did. He gave Alabaster a slack rein and let her walk the rest of the way home to cool out -- she'd gotten a little sweaty in the canter as her winter coat was well in and the day was unseasonably warm.

Pip met him at the stables. "I think she's mostly cooled down," said Will, "but walk her ten minutes or so once you have her out of the tack to see that she's well-dried. The weather's warm enough that she sweated up almost instantly."

"I will, sir." He grinned as he took the reins and continued, addressing Alabaster, "Come on, then lass, let's get you stripped."

\---------------


	9. In which Hensley goes to London

John was in his study, at the close of the day, working through his correspondence. At the stroke of five, Hensley appeared with his brandy and, unusually, lingered in view after positioning it silently on the desk. "Yes, Hensley?" said John.

"I regret to inform you that I have unavoidable business in London," said Hensley, "But I shall not be gone from your service for more than a fortnight."

"Is everything all right?" asked John.

"It's a personal matter, Sir," said Hensley, "Family business."

John took a sip of his brandy and rolled it around in his mouth, considering. "When will you be leaving?"

"Tonight. I've arranged to catch a ride on the mail coach."

"Very well, Hensley. We shall have to muddle along without you for the duration."

"Thank you, Sir. I'll be back as soon as I can."

\--------------------------------------------

Hensley didn't care for the noise, the filth, or the crowded conditions in Newgate, but he'd sent word to his contacts in the city and had gotten notice back that, inside the prison, he might find a man for Will and Emma. He paid for his permit to visit a prisoner, then paid again because the man he sought was a condemned soul not allowed visitors. What was and was not allowed at Newgate, Hensley knew, depended largely on how much a man was willing to pay. In that, it was much like the rest of the world. Following the turnkey's indifferent stroll, Hensley went down the dim, narrow passageway, past cells with doors to a bulk holding cell for the condemned, which held a variety of wretches chained to the walls.

The guard indicated one man in rags on the floor. He, like the others, was in leg irons and his forehead was resting on his knees. "That's him ye come to see. Are yeh family? You look well-heeled. That kind of scratch could buy him an easement of irons or a private cell..." The guard's voice trailed off at Hensley's expression.

"May I have a moment alone with him?"

"I'm not to leave visitors alone with regular prisoners, sir, let alone the condemned. Say what you want to say, I'll just wait here to see to your safety. It's a pity he hasn't a ... private cell..." The guard's little speech contained pauses into which coins could be dropped and his very bearing was an upturned, empty palm.

Hensley sighed. "Can't imagine what I was thinking," he said, "Of course that's a capital idea." He reached into his waistcoat and continued, "Get him a cell of his own, a cot to rest on, and some privacy in which to contemplate his immortal soul. I'll help him get settled in." He dropped two coins into the turnkey's promptly outstretched hand.

The turnkey glanced down at his hand, where two gold sovereigns gleamed. "Of course, sir. I'll move him to a cell immediately."

Tucking the coins away, he bent and unlocked the prisoner's shackles. "Come on, then, your benefactor has bought you a cell." The prisoner stood, shakily, and the turnkey led him back the way they'd come. Hensley followed, not sure if the prisoner's baby-colt walk was from weakness or shackles. The turnkey opened an unoccupied cell and pushed the somewhat wobbly prisoner inside. He turned to Hensley and handed him the key. "Take all the time you need, gov, and leave the key off at the gate on your way out." The turnkey walked off without even a backward glance, leaving Hensley to marvel, yet again, at how easily ready coin made problems disappear.

Hensley walked into the cell and closed the door to just a crack behind him. The man he'd come to see sat on the shabby cot, regarding him calmly. In the dim light, it was impossible for Hensley to see much about him beyond the man's steady gaze, but the court records said that he was twenty-six and his contact in London had written that the prisoner was tall and reasonably handsome. 

"You are John Markham." Hensley figured he'd start with the obvious. And while the guard seemed certain, if this wasn't the right man, best to find out straight off.

"That I am." Hensley waited to see if more information was forthcoming, but John Markham sat quietly, looking at him, without offering anything more.

"I hear you've a date with Foxy," said Hensley, referring to James Foxen, the hangman at Newgate.

"Aye," said Markham flatly. Hensley resigned himself to taking on most of the heavy lifting in the conversation.

"They say you buggered a man," said Hensley. "Is that true?"

"True enough."

"And what do you have to say about that?"

"I figure," Markham said, with a hint of fire behind his voice, "that if the person I'm sticking my prick into ain't complaining, then it's of no concern to anyone else." He sighed and continued, "The law doesn't agree with me on that and the court went with the law."

"You didn't force him?" Hensley hated how blunt that sounded, but at least it was clear.

"I'm no rapist," spat Markham, "'S why I said he wasn't complaining."

"Right, then. Tell me your story, John Markham. Tell me how you came to be in a poorhouse, buggering another man on a coffin."

"Ye've the right of it that I didn't start in a poorhouse." Markam stood, ran a hand through his hair, and looked away. "I grew up west of London, on a small farm wi' me Da and Mum. I took over the farm when he died, the year I turned nineteen." He tried to pace, but could only shuffle with the irons, and after a few clinking steps, he sat back down on the cot. "Twas just me and me mum, for a few years, and we did all right. Then I took up with Molly, she lived down the road, and we married. Happiest I've ever been was the summer months right after I married Molly." There might have been a ghost of a smile on Markham's face, but it flickered and was gone so quickly that Hensley wouldn't swear to it having ever been there.

"Sounds like a solid life. Nearly idyllic, in fact. What happened?"

"Summer don't last. Me mum died from a cough that winter. She never got to see her first grandchild -- by then Molly was expecting -- and I thought at the time that it was a great tragedy."

"I'm sorry," said Hensley.

"Me too," said Markham. He took a deep breath and continued. "I got better acquainted with tragedy that spring. Molly died in childbirth, the baby too. After that, I drowned my sorrows, lost the farm, and wound up in the poorhouse. It's all kind of a blur."

"I see," said Hensley. "And the sodomy?"

"I've always had an eye for men as well as ladies. I know it's sinful and perverse, but I like what I like regardless of what the parish priest has to say about it. Molly was a delight and marryin' her was allowed whereas steppin' out with Charlie from down t' pub would have had me hanged no matter he had a wide, easy grin that would make angels fall, broad shoulders and strong hands." Markham sighed. "So, I married Molly. By the time I wound up in the poorhouse, Molly dead, my life in ruins, I ... Look. Dev was warm, willing, and kind. There's little enough comfort in the poorhouse -- a man would be a fool not to take any that's offered."

"But... the coffin? Have you an unnatural fixation on the dead?"

"Nothing of the sort. We didn't think the inhabitant would mind, by way of bein' dead. Also we figured we could have some privacy there on account of the crypts being kind of quiet." Markham laughed bitterly. "We were wrong about that, as it turned out."

"And your... Dev? Is he also in jail?"

"He's safe in the poorhouse last I heard. Why should both of us die for a stupid law? I told Dev that if he'd keep quiet, I'd say I forced him so that he could live. No sense both of us being hanged and had it been the other way 'round, he'd have claimed to have forced me." Markham looked at Hensley, trying to gauge whether or not the other man was sympathetic to his reasoning. Hensley nodded, encouragingly, so Markham continued, "You paid for the cell so you get to ask the questions. I know you don't owe me any answers but I'd still be much obliged if you'd tell me why you are here, asking so many questions of a condemned man."

"I'm here because I need a man, possibly a man such as you." Hensley stopped, waiting to see how Markham reacted.

"You don't strike me as the type," said Markham. He looked at Hensley, considering him. "No," he continued carefully, watching Hensley's reaction, "You're not looking for you. You're looking for someone else."

"Yes."

Markham got up from the cot and approached Hensley. He was, Hensley saw, taller than Will and surprisingly broad of shoulder despite being thin from Newgate's meager rations. He approached Hensley, stood close enough to him that Hensley could smell the man, cleanliness being an impossibility for the condemned in Newgate.

Markham didn't touch Hensley's clothes but he looked at them, looked at their cut and construction, at the neatly starched cravat, the close and careful shave, the immaculate gloves, the faint scent of soap. Hensley stood still, letting himself be appraised.

"You're in service. You're not dressed quite nice enough to be a gentleman. Given what I think you're looking for and the leeway you clearly have in searching for it, you're in a position of trust and responsibility, so something like a butler, maybe a steward."

"What do you think I'm looking for?" asked Hensley.

"You want someone to bugger your... master? Young master? Something like that." Markham smirked. "You know, there's some things a man likes to choose for himself -- who he'll bed is usually one of those things."

"I have been given some very specific requirements. I have, in fact, been given a list." Hensley reached into his waistcoat and drew out the slip of paper he'd gotten from Will, the one on which Emma'd written her list. He held it out to Markham, "Can you read?"

"I've had schooling," said Markham, taking the paper and unfolding it. "What is...? This looks like a lady's writing, not a man's."

"You are correct," said Hensley. "It is a lady's writing."

"I don't..." Markham paused. He looked at Hensley again, considering. "This is part of the ... searching, isn't it? You want to see whether or not I can figure it out."

Good, thought Hensley. Aloud, he said, "Yes."

"And this is important to you, two sovereigns worth of important. That's a pretty sum to spend to get me into a cell so we could have this conversation in private. Either money don't mean much to you or you have a fair supply of it."

"Go on."

Despite the encouragement, Markham was silent for a long while. When he spoke, it was thoughtfully, while looking at the slip of paper in his hand. "This lady's concerns -- that the man be 'kind' and 'not a drinker' and not 'run to fat' -- are not things one worries about for a one-time tumble. They are concerns for the long term." He looked at Hensley for confirmation. Hensley nodded, just once. Markham continued, cautiously. "Also you wanting me to figure it out, that's because you need me to be smart. You need a clever man, not just a willing one."

Hensley nodded again.

Markham stared at the paper in his hand again, rubbing a thumb over the writing. "You're not searching for a whore, then. And you started this conversation with buggery -- you need a man who has a taste for other men. Someone, somewhere, is to be buggered, lady's concerns or no." Markham glanced at Hensley, not quite seeing how the pieces connected. He wasn't expecting a nod, but he got both a nod and a faint smile.

"So I'm to suit a lady, to be smart, and to bugger a man. It's not making sense. If the lady -- and from the quality of the paper and the neatness of the hand, I believe she is indeed a lady -- wants a man, then why doesn't she marry one? Surely she has a settlement if she's spending on stationery like this. Is she so ugly that no-one will offer for her?" Markham was just thinking out loud. He had given up expecting much from Hensley and startled when Hensley spoke.

"She has a settlement, a generous one. And, if I may be so bold as to offer an opinion, she is quite comely." Hensley was beginning to like John Markham and his measured consideration of the facts. He shouldn't have shared even that much, but he rather wanted Markham to solve the puzzle.

"Then why the hell doesn't she have an off-- oh." Markham stopped mid-word, struck by the answer. "She does have an offer, from a man who prefers men. Despite his preferences, she is inclined to marry him. Possibly they're long-time friends."

"They're cousins," clarified Hensley.

"And she wants children, he needs an heir, I see," said Markham, who'd got the loose end of yarn and was unravelling the sweater, the loops disappearing going pop-pop-pop and leaving him with overflowing handsfull of crimped yarn. "She at least knows of the situation, hence the list of requirements. They've sent you shopping for a third, to do him or her or him and her."

"Well," said Hensley, quite pleased but doing his best to look formal, "I didn't get into quite that level of detail, but you've the general idea."

"And the clever part, how does that fit in?"

"You need a visible reason to be in the household. I'll be retiring in the near future and someone will have to take my place as steward for the family. Ideally, you could handle that job as well as the other."

"I'm to hang, though..."

"Ah, that. Well," said Hensley, dismissively, "you needn't worry about that."

Hensley imagined that there'd be some sort of a search for Markham but hoped to have him safely in the countryside, well away from London, by the time anyone important noticed he'd been sprung from Newgate.

"I don't see how... but I'll play along. I assume you've got some plan to get me out of here. Then what? I go meet the happy couple?"

"You get cleaned up and fattened up first. Right now you're filthy and a wraith besides. But yes, you get to meet the couple before anything is decided. I'm not certain of how they want it to go, but they need to approve of you -- and you of them." Hensley hadn't been planning on adding that last. 

"What if they don't like me?"

"If they don't like you then we've agreed to transport you -- it's better than death and it should keep you out of the noose. If you stay here, you'll be hanged before year's end."

Markham didn't hesitate. "I'll do it."

"Very well. I'll send for you tonight, after the bell tolls three."

Hensley turned and left, closing and locking the cell behind him before he walked briskly out of Newgate to set his plans in motion. He had a lot to do.


	10. Hensley visits The Tipsy Whore

Hensley left Newgate and headed west on Snow Hill to get to Holborn, away from his lodgings at the Oxford Arms. Unlike many rural visitors to London, Hensley did not marvel at the buildings, the traffic, or the crowded streets around him. He walked briskly along, sure of his path and uninterested in the bustle around him. He headed along Holborn until he got to Leather Lane, where he turned right onto the narrower street without hesitation. While waiting for a dray wagon to finish unloading (it was blocking his way across Liquorpond), Hensley reached out behind him like a snake striking and grabbed the hand attempting to pick his coat pocket. 

"Don't yell. I've got you fair," Hensley hissed to the hapless not-quite-a-thief, not bothering to look in the direction of his captive. "You're not very good at this. Have you considered trying honest work instead?" Hensley waited for a reply but continued once it was clear there wouldn't be one. "Fine, then. Here's some advice, worth more than what you'll credit it. Only use your fingers to make the lift -- not your thumb -- and spend some time practicing before you give it another go. Not everyone is as forgiving as I am." At that point, the wagon that had been blocking the road creaked off down the street, so Hensley turned the hand loose without even looking back to see who owned it. He crossed Liquorpond for the narrow and dark Eyre Street Hill, walked about halfway down it, to Summers, and entered a disreputable pub on the far corner, said pub named The Tipsy Whore.

As soon as he walked in the door, Hensley realized he was dressed too well to be there. Ordinarily he'd have gone to his rooms and reassembled himself into someone more suited to frequenting the shabby pub, but given the urgency of his current task, he'd figured he could get by without attracting too much notice. With nearly every eye in the place on him, though, he realized that he'd been wrong on that front. It couldn't be helped now, though, so he scanned the crowd, looking a familiar face. It'd been a while, but he couldn't have changed that much...

"Robbie! As I live and breathe!" The man coming towards him had put on some weight and remodeled his nose by way of someone else's fist, but it was his cousin Philip, an expansive smile on his face. Judging from the expansive smile, he was also shy a few teeth from the last time Hensley'd seen him. "It's been an age! Haven't seen you since we put your Da in the ground, what was it, ten years gone now?" On seeing the proprietor greet Hensley warmly, the rest of the pub's patrons returned to their conversations or their drinks and studiously ignored the pair, as it was the sort of pub where you didn't pay too much attention to business that wasn't your own.

"About that long," said Hensley, agreeably, smiling back at his cousin. "You know it's difficult for me to get to town what with the job and all." 

Philip rolled his eyes. "Feh. You and your honest work. Never a day off, and all the time listening to someone telling you what to do. I still can't see how that's a better gig than the one you were raised up for, but ye look well enough." Philip clapped Hensley on the shoulder, a familiar gesture that made Hensley grin rakishly, an expression that would have sent John Pitt to his grave prematurely if he'd seen it on the face of his reserved and professional steward. 

"You know I'd never have made it in the profession, Pip," Hensley said. "I'm not suited to it. Every time I come home, I stick out like a sheep among wolves." He looked over at the bar, pointedly, before continuing at a lower volume, "You still have a room in the back?"

"O'course I do. And you might look a sheep, but them as matters know you're a Seymore through and through." Philip gave Hensley's cheek a pat. "Come on, we'll talk in the back. Care for a pint?"

"I could use a drink, bit of a march gettin' here. Get one for yourself, too -- I'll be talking long enough to make it worth having."

Philip got two pints from the barmaid and headed behind the bar to a storeroom with barrels of beer, spare glassware on shelves, and a couple of chairs at a small and somewhat rickety table, furnishings clearly used for meetings such as this one. He set the pints down on the table, which happily held up to the load (Hensley'd had his doubts about its ability to withstand a pair of pints), drew up a chair for Hensley, and found another for himself. They sat and made the acquaintance of their respective pints before Philip spoke. "Right, then, Robbie. Ain't anyone dead, I'd have heard. Yer ma's still in fine shape not that you visit her or anything. Yer brother, well, all right, that horse is so dead it's been picked to bits by ravens and I can't even blame you on it. He's no good to his own self let alone anyone else, never has been either." Philip took a swig from his pint. Setting his glass down on the table with a thunk, he ignored the table's subsequent wobble and looked seriously at his cousin. "What's brought you to the Tipsy Whore?"

"I need a prison break, Pip. I'm hoping you still have a hand in that?" He looked at Philip questioningly and got a small nod in return. "I can pay," Hensley offered. 

"Where from? And what sort of criminal? You remember, no murderers or highwaymen."

"Newgate."

Philip whistled softly. "You don't aim low, do you Robbie?" He took a sip of his beer. "I've got contacts in there, good ones, but it won't be cheap. Bridewell's easier, Marshalsea, too."

"Unfortunately, I need Newgate. I didn't expect it would be cheap, but I've got scratch. Charge me a fair price for the work. He's a sodomite, but not a rapist, came out the poorhouse before he went to jail, not a harm to others I shouldn't think. Can you do it?"

Philip sighed and scratched his thinning hair. "Should I even try asking what you want with 'im?"

Hensley smiled apologetically. "Best if you don't. His name's John Markham, due to be hanged before the new year."

"All right. You play your cards close, but if he's nobody special, it should be straightforward. Five hundred pounds (A year's wages for a laborer in England in 1819 was about 20 pounds.) should get it done and I'll throw in a double for the hanging."

"A what? You can buy a man to be hanged for that kind of money?"

"Might could do, but that's not what we're about." Philip looked entirely too pleased with himself. "See, when you free a man from prison, the prisoner goes missing. People notice missing prisoners and that kind of thing makes our turnkeys look bad. Happens often enough, someone who matters will take notice and then the party's over." Hensley nodded, understanding, and Philip paused to finish his beer. "'S better to put a person in prison to replace the one we sprung. The replacement cools his heels a week or two, Foxy hangs 'im at the appointed hour, he dangles a while at the gallows for all to see, then gets cut down and goes about his business, right as you please. The prisoner isn't missing, there's no search, and our turnkeys, bought and paid for, get to keep their jobs."

"How do you hang a man and not kill him?" Hensley was genuinely curious.

"The prisoner wears a harness under his shirt, the hangman has an iron hook that goes into the noose and into the harness so that the prisoner hangs, but not exactly by his neck. It looks pretty real, and a couple of our boys have been hung enough that they get kind of theatrical with it."

"That's something else, but if you say it works, then it works. I'll get the money to you later this week but I need him sprung tonight."

"Tonight?" Philip laughed, surprised. "Not going to happen, Robbie. It'll take two weeks to get things arranged, easy. There's nothing happening tonight."

"I promised him tonight and I have to be back to work within two weeks," said Hensley, tightly. "I'm under something of a time constraint, here."

"Calm down. So you don't get him out when you said you would. What's he going to do, leave? Course not. He's going nowhere. When we show to spring him, he'll leave gladly enough. Best if you don't visit again, though, lest you draw notice." At Hensley's pained expression, he continued. "I'll talk to my boys, see what I can do, but tonight isn't going to happen. Maybe I can get something together in a few days?"

"It'll have to do," said Hensley. "Pity I can't send word to him not to wait up, though. He'll be expecting me and understandably disappointed when I don't show."

"He'll get over it, or at least he'll have the time and luxury to try to get over it by way of Not Being Hanged." Hensley didn't look mollified, so Philip continued, "If you're really worried, I'll get him word that it may take a few days. Can he read?"

"Yes. He's had schooling," said Hensley, smiling faintly.

"Good. As soon as I have a firm plan, I'll write him a note and have it delivered -- this afternoon, maybe this evening. Anything else?"

"No, that's it. Thank you, and I'll get you payment before the week's out." Hensley stood and extended his hand, to shake with Philip's. Philip, for his part, stood, ignored the hand, and embraced Hensley, who hugged him back after a bare moment's stiffness. 

"Don't be such a stranger, Robbie. It's good to see you. Now, if you've some time, swing by yer mam's and pay yer respects. She'll be glad of seein' ya."

"I'm headed there next, Pip. Take care and update me with any news -- I'm over at the Oxford Arms on Warwick Lane, you can leave word with the barkeep for Robert Hensley if I'm out."

Philip waved his hand dismissively. "I know, I know. You went out into the world to be Robert Hensley nigh on thirty years ago, a smooth-faced lad of fifteen set on earning An Honest Living because you didn't want to be Robbie Seymore of the Eyers Street Hill Seymores." His tone sharpened. "You left Robbie Seymore behind, left London behind, left the, well, the dishonest living behind. And, ye daft cow, ye left me behind. And yer mam. Ye could come back and visit occasional-like. We wouldn't mind seeing you when it's not a funeral or an emergency."

"This isn't --" started Hensley.

"Ah, Robbie, it is," cut in Philip. "Honest, now, would you have even let us know you were in town if you hadn't needed a man sprung from prison?"

"Well, no." Hensley had the good grace to look embarrassed.

"And if there were some way to get what you wanted besides hiring the criminal element standing here afore you, would you be hirin' the criminal element known as your dear cousin Pip?"

"No. No, I wouldn't be."

"Think on it, is all, Robbie. Yer mam's getting on in years and she hasn't that many left. It'd do her heart good, blackened by crime though it is. Now get out of here and let me get started on your project."

With that, Philip gathered up the pint glasses and ushered Hensley out of the back room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pub is a rhyming slang for Pip Seymore. I realize that this is technically about twenty years too early for rhyming slang but I'm having a good time over here and I don't give a shit.


	11. Hensley visits his mother

After leaving The Tipsy Whore, Hensley walked halfway down Summers Street to his mother's house and beat at the door. "Mum, open up, it's me, Robbie!" He sounded nothing like himself and everything like Mrs. Seymore's son. "Mum, come on, I know Pip sent ya a runner. Open th' door, willya?" In truth, Hensley hadn't actually seen Pip send a runner, but there had to have been one. Nothing important happened at The Tipsy Whore that Mrs. Seymore didn't know about shortly afterward and the unexpected arrival of her prodigal son definitely counted as important. "Mum, I'm leaving if you don't open up the door!" It was an idle threat. Hensley had promised Pip to see his mother and see her he would. He waited, long enough for a stiff old woman to make it to the door, and no such person appeared. Neither was there any acknowledgement of his presence. He beat the door again, hard enough that flakes of paint fell off of it. The curtain by the door twitched aside, briefly, then swished closed. Hensley only caught the movement as the curtain settled back into stillness, but it encouraged him. He raised his fist to attack the door with renewed vigor, but it creaked open before he could strike it.

The opening door revealed a teenaged girl, maybe sixteen or so, with a suspicious look on what was otherwise a pretty face. "What d'ya want?" she asked, squinting into the daylight.

"I'm here to see me mum, Mrs. Seymore. I'm Robbie Seymore, her son" said Hensley. He'd thought that should have been obvious from the pounding and yelling he'd done previous, but it didn't hurt to be polite. He tried to peer behind the girl to see if his mother was anywhere in evidence, but the house was quite dark with the curtains closed. He couldn't see anything.

"You don't look half a Seymore," said the girl, voicing her suspicions. "And if yer her boy, whyn't I seen you before?" She rocked back on her heels a little and waited for him to answer.

"Excuse me, you are...?" tried Hensley.

"See this door?" She pointed at it, for extra emphasis. Hensley nodded. "I'm the person inside it, gov. And you're the person outside it and wantin' in. So, I get to ask the questions and you get to answer 'em." She smirked at him.

"Fair enough," said Hensley, swallowing his ire, because he'd enough experience with what were, after all, his people to know that bulling straight ahead with them was not the way through. "I'm guessing you know Pip, right?" The girl nodded. "And he's broad and squat, round-faced and ham-fisted. Looks sort of like a bulldog might look if it were a person and not a bulldog."

"I'm telling him you said that," said the girl, grinning slightly. "So how do you, Mr. Long and Lean, expect me to take you for a Seymore? If Pip's a bulldog and I'm not saying he is, then you're a blood horse. And that still doesn't answer how I've never seen you before in my life. If you are a son, and I'm not saying you are, you're a piss-poor one who never visits his mum."

Hensley ignored that last for a moment and pressed his argument. "And Mrs. Seymore, she's round-faced and thick-armed for a woman. Even though she's old now, you can tell she had some substance to her when she was younger. She was a looker back in the day, but she was never slight. I don't much favor her, either, do I?"

"Naw, yer nothin' like her, except maybe about the eyes." The girl leaned on the door, clearly settling in for the long haul of doorway negotiations. "Also, I never met Mr. Seymore but everyone says he was a solid brick wall of a man, like Pip only bigger," she offered.

Hensley laughed. "Perhaps he grew in their memories. He was broad, but not any taller than Pip turned out. Good man to have as a friend, not someone you'd want to fight with. He had fists that'd fell an ox."

"I've also met Mrs. Seymore's son, least, the one that lives in London," said the girl, carefully. "He visits his mum, even if she'd rather he not."

"I'm sorry," said Hensley.

"Not half so much as me," bit out the girl, angrily. "He's a right bastard and I don't mind sayin' so nor give two shits who hears me say it."

"Many would agree with you. He's not worth a damn."

"He's an arse for sure," said the girl, "but he looks like the rest of the Seymores, even the cousins. Thick and solid, not over tall, built for brawling."

"Tell you what," Hensley offered, putting a hand on the door jamb and leaning forward. "Why don't you go tell Mrs. Seymore that I'm here standing on Summers Street in broad daylight claiming to be a Seymore when clearly I'm not. See what she says to that." Hensley had given up on PIp having sent a runner. If he had, there'd not be this much difficulty getting in the door of his mother's house. He was starting to wonder if she was well or, indeed, competent, since she hadn't come to the door yet. But Pip had said she was well enough, so Hensley didn't know what to think except that in the ten years he'd been gone, his mum had let her fingers slip from the pulse of The Tipsy Whore. 

"Wait here. I'll be back," said the girl as the door closed in his face. He stood on the stoop for longer than he would have thought necessary but waited all the same until the door opened again, the girl again. "She says you're to come in. Wanted to know who died. I told her 'sfar as I knew, nobody." She stepped aside to let him in.

Hensley walked into the house, eyes taking a moment to adjust to the gloom. He walked past the entryway and made a left into what he hoped was still the parlour. It was smaller and shabbier than he remembered it being. "Is that you, Robbie?" His mother's voice was quavery, weaker than he remembered. "Come over here so that I can see you."

She was in a chair by the window, hands folded in her lap and a blanket over her skirt as the house was chilly. A cane rested against the side of her chair. Hensley approached and knelt down in front of her so that his face was level with hers. "It's me, mum," he said loudly, "I've come to town for business, but found a moment spare to come visit you." 

"I was afraid I'd never see you again, didn't believe Bess when she said you were at the door," said his mother. "Also, you don't have to yell. I can hear you just fine. I'm old, not deaf."

"Bess lives with you?" asked Hensley in a more-normal tone of voice. "Where's she from?"

"Aye. She stays with me, cooks, cleans, takes care of things. I don't get around so well these days and Pip says I shouldn't be alone. He sent her over."

"Me name ain't Bess," whispered the girl, who was standing by the parlor door. "It's Sarah. Bess was the one before me. Pip says to just answer to whatever she calls us by and not unsettle her mind about things."

"Do you get on with her all right, mum?" asked Hensley, ignoring Bess/Sarah's input but gesturing in her direction.

"Ah, Bess is a fine girl, Robbie. Pip says she's staying w'me until she has the babe, then she's going back to work."

Hensley glanced over at the girl again. Her belly was about six months gone if he was any judge. 

"Pip sends us here when we start to swell," offered what Hensley was beginning to believe was actually Sarah, "and we care for her until we're past lying-in, then we go back to work."

"I see," said Hensley to Sarah, who nodded and dipped in her best effort at a curtsey before leaving the two of them alone.

"You know, she almost didn't let me in," said Hensley, fake-confidentially. He stood, knees creaking slightly, and sat in the chair next to his mother. It smelled like dust and the seat cushion was lumpy, but it beat kneeling on the wooden floor. "She thought I wasn't a Seymore." His tone was light and he was going for the laugh. He didn't get one.

"Bess is no fool, Robbie. Ye don't look a Seymore now and ye never did," said his mother. "You've always been a clever boy, but I swear you're the only soul on Summers Street didn't know ye weren't yer father's get."

"I... what?" Hensley was genuinely shocked.

"Ye weren't yer father's, Robbie. Come on, boy, how d'ya think I met old Philip? Same as I met every man, back in the day." She laughed. "He warn't above a whore if he liked her looks. For all that I was starting to show (with you, dear boy) when he came along, he liked me well enough to take me to wife anyway. Even named the bar after both of us, which was considerate of him seein' as how I'd earned half of the purchase price on my back. Or my knees, more like."

"I'd no idea about any of that," said Hensley, choosing for the sake of his sanity to ignore the 'knees' comment. "But it explains why I don't look a Seymore."

"Bah fer yer looks," said his mother. "Doesn't matter. My Philip loved you like his own son regardless. More important, when it was clear you weren't for crime, even with that scheming brain of yours, he helped you find somewhere else to be."

"Da got me the position at Willoughby's?" Hensley had thought he'd landed his first job in service on his own.

"That he did, Robbie. Your references, such as they were, didn't hold up to examination. Your da paid off the butler's gambling debts in exchange for him taking you on in spite of the references. Ten pounds, it was." She leaned forward in her chair. "Everything after that was on your own, but the first job... that was yer da, lookin' out for you... and you never once looked back after you left."

"Why are you telling me this now?"

"Not sure when I'm to see you again. Best take advantage of your visit, seein' as how I'm an old woman now and gettin' older. I expect I haven't that many chances left to tell you things I think you should hear." She glared at her son pointedly until he looked away.

"You might have more chances than you think," said Hensley, looking down at his shoes and trying to understand how she could make him feel ten years old when he was a man grown and then some. "Pip said I should make more of an effort to get to town and visit. He was quite convincing."

"You said the same thing to me when we put yer da in the ground, Robbie," sighed his mother, "I'd like to believe you but we both know how it went last time."

"All right, mum," said Hensley. "Let's not..." he sighed, gave up the unwinnable point, and changed the subject. "You're doing well, though?"

"Can't complain, really, but I still do." She smiled at him. "How long will you be in town?"

"I'll be here a few days at least, possibly as long as two weeks. I've got a bit of a touchy thing that I'm trying to get settled, for work."

"Oh? You're still at that nobleman's out in Kent, right?"

"Yes, I am," said Hensley. 

"But you're here in London and they're not. And ye went to see Pip afore ye saw me," said his mother. "Pip still has a hand in; he's not old and useless like I am." She tilted her head, looking at him. "Was it business you wanted with Pip, Robbie, or do you just like him better, that you went to see him first?"

Hensley sighed. His mother might be confused about the names of the pregnant whores looking after her, but it seemed she was still inconveniently sharp about some things. "It was business, mum. I need someone sprung from Newgate. See, the nob I work for is getting old..." -- Hensley launched into what he'd privately begun thinking of as "The Pitt Problem" knowing his mother would enjoy the tale without sharing it or embarrassing the family.

By the time he'd gotten to the current state of affairs, the weak November daylight was starting to fail and Hensley would have to hurry to make it to the Oxford Arms before nightfall. Hensley wrapped his tale, bid his mother goodbye, with promises to visit again before he left London, and headed back to the inn.


	12. A message to Newgate ; Plans in Motion ; Will and Emma Ride to Batcher's

It was almost dark, daylight fading from the part of the sky that John could see through his cell window, when he heard the key in the door to his cell. The door swung open to reveal a bored guard and a knobbly knees and elbows youth in clothing a shade too small for him. The youth was clutching a small square of paper, folded over and sealed.

"You've all kinds of visitors today," said the guard, "what a reversal in fortune for you! Too bad it's come so late in yer life!" While the turnkey chuckled at his own wit, the youth advanced timidly, the note held out in front of him like an offering to a wild animal. His eyes were glued to the prisoner, as if he'd never seen a man before.

"It's for you," he said needlessly. John reached out and took the note without rising from his cot.

"Thank you."

"That all ye need?" asked the guard, looking at the boy.

"Yessir," said the boy.

"Come on, then," said the guard. They left; the key turned in the lock.

In privacy, the luxury he'd been granted via a cell of his own, John Markham examined the note he'd been given. It was ordinary paper, not fancy stationary like he'd seen earlier that day, worn a bit soft at the corners from the lad's sweaty hand. The wax was pressed flat to seal the paper -- no signet. He opened the note carefully, savoring the way the red wax broke open. Prison had little enough to enliven the days and even though the day had already been blessed with many things of interest, John Markham adhered to the notion that he should waste not one scrap of diversion. With the note opened and its creases smoothed out, he regarded it. It'd been written in a plain hand, utilitarian at best, but the smudges on the paper were all on the outside, likely from the knobbly youth who'd delivered it. The inside was clean -- whoever had done the writing had had clean hands. The curved letters, though, the o's and e's and s's, had thin shadows to them from a tag left on the quill point, something that indicated an author not particularly practiced or careful at cutting quills. This note, then, was likely written by someone other than the steward who had come to see him. A steward wrote regularly, daily, in the keeping of records for the estate or estates he managed. Such a man would have a practiced hand and a cleanly-cut quill if only from the familiarity of the action. This note was written by someone who, while he knew how to write, didn't do enough of it to be practiced or elegant. He squinted in the fading light to read the words, which were few.

_Not tonight. Might be a few days. Don't worry and be ready._

It was not signed, though that wouldn't have helped him. His benefactor earlier that afternoon had never given a name, not to him and not, he didn't think, to the turnkey. He managed a faint smile at 'be ready' though -- all he had were the clothes on his back. He was already as ready as he could be. "All ready," he thought to himself, smirking. He folded the letter quite small and tucked it away in his shirt.

John Markham considered himself a drowning man. (In his darker moments, he admitted that the drowning was of his own making just as much as if he'd failed to leap the Bolton Strid.) In such a precarious state, he figured it was only natural for him to grab hold of any rope thrown his way. Even so, the promise of being freed seemed too good to be true. Still, he couldn't dismiss that promise as a particularly vivid daydream because the private cell was a fact indisputable; the very cot under his arse support not only for himself at that moment but also for the reality of the afternoon's events. It _had_ happened, of that he was sure. But... why?

John returned to the facts, the things he actually knew. First, the nameless benefactor had spent two sovereigns on getting him the private cell. If the afternoon's events were in jest, they were an expensive jest. But pranks, at least in his experience, were performed at the expense of one for the benefit of an audience. Here there was no audience. The situation could easily be at his expense, but with nobody to watch, what would be the point? If the proposition was in earnest, though, an audience would be the last thing anyone wanted. Maybe it was real in the way his cot was real. He wanted it to be real.

He lay back on his cot and thought about his future, such as it might be if he actually got a future instead of being hanged by the neck until dead. Assuming things turned out as the benefactor said they would, he was headed into service for the landed gentry. It'd be a bit of a career shift for a tenant farmer. The benefactor was the estate's steward, John remembered, and he'd said he was looking for his own replacement. John knew he'd been a quick study in school, at least so far as he'd attended, and he could read and write, better than most men in his position. As well, he'd always had a good head for figures. As to managing an estate -- a large estate, if it could drop two sovereigns on part of a project like this -- he had no experience with anything like that. But, he knew tenant farming and was familiar with the rhythms of agricultural life, more so than most Londoners. The actual work of stewarding, John thought, would be a surmountable problem, especially with that immaculate, confident steward to train him in the job. Perhaps one day in the not-distant future, it would be him in fine clothes with a pocket full of sovereigns and his employer's full faith and confidence.

Looking and sounding the part, on an ongoing basis would be harder. Anyone might manage it for an hour or a day, but doing so, consistently, for the weeks and months until he became an accepted member of the household would be difficult. He'd need clothing to match his supposed station, which he had no doubt the benefactor would get done via the power of sovereigns. He'd need to be clean, which was a matter solved by regular applications of soap and water. He'd need to learn to talk and behave like a high-level employee on a country estate and that would be harder. But, people rose in service, especially in the sort of service where skills were important. If he could handle the actual job, the people around him would excuse some plainness in speech and rough manners. Also, if the arrangement were in earnest, the people around him would want him to succeed. His failure would disclose their secrets and put everyone at risk of scandal, so they'd likely be trying to help him pass as what he was pretending to be. It might be possible.

As for the other work, well, he already knew how to fuck. Nothing to do now but try to get some sleep and see if the benefactor came through or left him to rot for Foxy. John closed his eyes.

\------------------------------------------------------------------

"Did ye deliver the note?" asked Philip Seymore of his gangly runner, who'd made it back to the Tipsy Whore just as the sky grew dark.

"Yessir. 'E took it from me an then I left with the turnkey," panted the boy. "I hustled back here right quick, like ye said."

"Tell me about the man you saw in the cell. What of him?" Part of the runner's job in delivering the note had been to get a good look at the prisoner.

"He didn't stand, was sittin' on the cot when I got there and never moved from it. Clothes were ragged and filthy but 'e's in Newgate. He has long legs and broad shoulders, though 'e's rail thin. Hair's brown, a middling shade, some curl to it, and hangs in 'is face. Eyes were blue-grey. Might could be fair-skinned 'neath the dirt. Prolly a handsome man were he cleaned up."

"Hrm. And if you'd pick someone that looked like him the most, would it be Tip, Fitz, or..." Philip paused, clearly thinking to himself. "No, damn it, Tom's wife is due any day now, he can't be away that long. So, Tip or Fitz, then, lad, who'd ye pick?" He'd already thought Fitz would be the better match, but he wanted to see what the runner said. Young lads, too small to raise much notice, carried messages and sent word. All they had to do was follow directions and be inconspicuous. Bigger lads, though, needed to be able to make good decisions if they were to rise to higher levels of usefulness. Judging by his clothes, this one had just shot up to "bigger lad" all at once. Best get the measure of him now. He continued, "And tell me yer thinkin' out loud. I want to know why you pick what you pick."

The lad considered a moment, not long, and then spoke confidently.

"Fitz would be closer. He's leaner built, but yer man is thin and don't look as big as he ought. The height's about right and mebbe we can hide his hair w' dirt or grease?" He looked at his employer hopefully, but Philip just looked back at him. "There's nowt we can do about the bright blue eyes, but Fitz can keep his head down mostly. Tip is near a handspan too short and too broad, besides. Them turnkeys don't get paid enough to pretend to be blind, so I'd go for Fitz."

Philip smiled a little.  "So would I. Right, then, go on and see if ye can find him, tell him we're on as soon as he can go. This is a rush job, no help for it, but he'll be well paid, two quid a day in prison plus forty for the hanging, paid to his mam if he don't make it."   As the boy left Philip considered the rest of the operation -- bribes, of course. There were the two Sheriffs, the Turnkeys, the Ordinary if he'd seen the prisoner, Foxy and his assistant, and the 'family' to come and pick up the body after it was cut down from the gallows.

Philip'd done a Newgate spring before, had sufficient contacts inside the prison to make sure the guards would not be a problem, and could manage the spiriting away of the prisoner afterwards without too much trouble. One distraught poor family looked much like another and those he had aplenty. Getting Fitz into the prison would also not be a problem. People were coming and going at Newgate all the time -- whores, visitors, family, priests -- who brought the imprisoned what comfort they could, physical or otherwise. Their presence (and their bribes) provided a lot of the income that the guards got as well as the necessary cover for escapes. His men would go in, three in number. They'd come out, three in number. There would be a man in the cell when they got to it and there'd be a man in the cell when they left it and who's to say what man it was or if the man had changed? Anyway, there were bribes to keep anyone who noticed the switch from making a fuss. Because it was a matter of interest to his cousin, he'd go himself, with Fitz to take Markham's place, and another man for cover in case Markham was too weak to walk. He didn't worry much about identifying himself to the prisoner since, in his experience, men being sprung from prison didn't question who was doing the springing if it let them slip the hangman's noose.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning at Chatham Hall, Will and Emma had an early bite so that they could make Batcher's for the second hunt of the season. It was seven miles from Chatham Hall even with shortcuts through the neighboring fields, so they'd made arrangements to head out at first light. As was his habit, Will headed down to the stables to bring the horses up to Emma on the drive.

"Morning, Wilkins. Looks to be another fine day of hunting. How are the horses coming along?"

"Just about tacked up, Master Will. Is Miss Emma planning on following the field from a distance like she did last time?"

"She is!," laughed Will. "She had such a fine time -- all three of the ladies did -- that they're taking a bigger party this time. Weatherby has also agreed to accompany them again since his Ember is still quite nervous in the field."

"He's not a young man anymore, that Lord Weatherby. Didn't he take a pretty bad spill at Batcher's last year?"

"He 'bout wrecked his knee. Man walks with a limp now," said Will, "but at least he walks. You remember, his Cracker didn't get up from that fall."

"Damn shame that was. He was a fine horse, too. Was it Emma's idea to invite Weatherby along with her group?" Wilkins seemed genuinely curious.

"No, it was mine. Emma agreed that it would be a good idea, though, and she and Bella charmed Weatherby into accompanying them."

"I'd've thought asking Weatherby along was Miss Emma's idea. She's very understanding about people, that way. Same as she is with her horses, really. Doesn't ask them for more than they can do, doesn't work them against their nature."

"Wilkins, what are you going on about?"

"M'Lord?"

"Wilkins." Wilkins turned to Alabaster and started fussing with her tack.

"Begging your pardon, M'Lord, but I don't understa--"

"Albert Wilkins, you have never in your life called me anything other than Master Will and it's not like you to start now. Quit apologizing and be out with it, man!"

Wilkins smoothed Alabaster's mane and checked her girth, buying himself some time to think. After a moment, he sighed and turned to Will. "Miss Emma is very perceptive about her horses and, I think, about her people. As she loves and values Button for being a steady and workmanlike companion without punishing him for lacking the fire and brilliance of Ember or the speed and boldness of Alabaster, she will love and value you for what you are instead of wishing you were something that you are not."

"Miss Emma and I understand each other _quite well_ and we are of one mind as we head into married life." said Will confidently. He watched Wilkins search his face for answers and find none.

"Very good, Master Will," said Wilkins, who had mentally shelved the matter for later. He handed the reins for 'Baster and Button over to Will. "Best wishes for the pair of you and congratulations on your recent engagement."

Will took the horses and led them out the yard and up to the drive, where Emma was waiting. With a leg up from James, she was aboard Button and they headed out to Batcher's. Once they'd gotten out of earshot, Emma spoke.

"Have you heard anything from Hensley?" She tried for a casual, light tone and almost managed it.

"He left for London two days ago, so I imagine he's still working on it. As soon as I know anything definite, I will tell you." Will hoped he sounded confident and reassuring.

"Have you given any thought on how we're to know if he'll suit us?" asked Emma.

"More than a little, but I've got no easy answers," admitted Will. "Thing is, we're no worse off than many arranged marriages -- even nowadays, people frequently get married without knowing each other all that well and it still mostly works out."

"I suppose so," answered Emma thoughtfully, "But our arrangement should be both functional and at least pleasant to both of us. I think we should meet him before we settle in to an arrangement. See what he's like, see if we get on well."

"That sounds reasonable. So, you want to meet with him and... talk to him?"

"Do a bit more than talk, I expect, but yes. I want to meet with him before anything is decided."

"Emma, are you entertaining the thought of bedding the man on first meeting?" Will looked a bit shocked at the prospect. "That's not--"

Emma cut him off. "I didn't say I would bed him, just that I wanted to meet him and... see if we get on well." Emma blushed pink down to her riding habit's neckline. "Beds probably wouldn't enter into it." She paused for effect, then added, "Probably."

"Do ladies really think about those sorts of things? Before now you've always been completely proper and ... ladylike around me. It's as if you're an entirely different person now."

Emma sighed. "We are engaged, Will, and in a way that will require honest and sincere communication between us if our marriage and arrangement are to succeed. If I continued to dissemble and feign a ladylike disinterest in matters of the flesh to ease your sensibilities, it would undercut our ability to find a suitable partner. Now, if ever, is the time for blunt honesty. While I hope to be compassionate and kind going forward, I must also be a damn sight more honest with you than I daresay any woman has ever yet been. So, yes. Ladies really do think about 'those sorts of things'. Not as much as men do, but enough. I don't intend to bed a man I do not desire. That said, it may set your mind at ease to know that I can ascertain desire in a brief, personal meeting that does not include bedding the man in question."

"Oh," said Will, chastened. They rode on in silence for a while. "Well, would it be all right if I, er, made sure we got on well together before I agreed to him?"

Emma considered the matter. "Are you planning on meeting then bedding him yourself, then?"

"Well," said Will, "It's not like..." He stopped to regroup. "I mean, we don't exactly..." Will blushed scarlet as his train of thought ground to a halt. He drew breath and tried again. "Beds have not heretofore loomed large in the proceedings, but I'd like to, uh, see how we do together."

Emma took pity on him. "Not been a lot of beds in your history, then?" she asked.

"Not usually," admitted Will. "There's never been the time or the assurance of privacy."

"But if we found a man, there could be going forward. Might be nice, having a bed."

"Might be. You know, we'll probably have to work out a schedule or something to avoid tiring the poor man out."

"I can see it now," giggled Emma, "in Chatham's ledger alongside notes about the apple harvest. 'Changed the man's schedule to three days a week due to the longer night hours in fall. Added a ration of beef to his meals so that he can keep his strength up.'"

"Wait, he gets four nights a week off? That seems wasteful."

"No, he gets three nights a week with me," clarified Emma. "I figured he could have three with you and then Sundays off."

"Poor man," said Will, sounding not at all like he felt sympathy for the man. "In truth, though, probably twice a week with you until you're bred. After that, I guess it's between you and him until the baby comes. I expect you'll need some time off, after, to heal up. I could do whatever he's up for, outside of the time he spends with you but we'll work that out together. I'm open to a wide range of possibilities there."

"What if I don't get with child?" asked Emma. "I mean, that is the point of having him around, right?"

"We've no reason to think you won't," said Will, "but I say we offer him a contract for five years or two children, whichever comes first. After that, he can renegotiate as suits him or leave if he wants."

"That's an excellent idea. I wouldn't want him to feel bound to stay if he were truly unhappy." Everything settled as much as it could be, Emma clucked to Button and nudged him onward. "We'd better get a move on, the fog has almost burned off and we're not yet halfway there." 

Seeing Emma pick up the pace, Will loosened the reins for Alabaster and she swung into an easy jog alongside Button. He was glad to see that the horses were starting to ride well together. Alabaster had given up trying to nip Button before the first season's hunt and these days she rarely even swished a tail toward the quiet bay gelding. Button, for his part, had never deserved Alabaster's initial disdain and was happy enough to work alongside her now that her insults to his person were diminishing. Will considered the two horses, who hadn't known each other previously or chosen to associate, and how they'd each become accustomed to the company of the other by way of working together so frequently. He wouldn't say 'Baster was fond of Button, but she'd stopped trying to nip or kick him in the course of a day's work. Maybe, he thought, that was how arranged marriages worked. In an arranged match, you might have as little say on the person you were harnessed to as 'Baster and Button did about who they rode next to, but assuming the person wasn't a complete bastard or something, you'd probably be able to develop an easy, working relationship with them over time. He sighed. So there wasn't a prospect for grand romance. An easy, working relationship would be better than nothing.


	13. Will and Emma hunt Batcher's

Will and Emma trotted in the lane to Batcher's before the mist had risen. It muffled the sound of their horses and kept them hidden until they were quite close to the house. Jacob Batcher and his brother David, of course, were there on the lawn as were the hounds, milling about in eager anticipation. Lord Weatherby, Phillip and Georgette Drake, and a fair crowd of the local gentry were there as well, hoping to enjoy the day's hunt. By the heart of winter, of course, only the staunch enthusiasts made an appearance, but this early in the season, the weather was kind and almost everyone came out. Jacob saw Will and Emma emerge from the mist and called out, "Hallo, Will, my good man! I hear congratulations are in order!"

"Yes, finally!" said Will, loudly enough to carry over the distance, crowd, and hounds. When he and Emma drew to a halt in the group, Will continued at a more reasonable but still over-the-hounds volume. "At last, Emma has agreed to do me the honor." 

"Splendid news!" said Phillip, "And if married life suits you as well as it does me, you'll soon wonder why you ever waited so long." He looked over at Georgette, who pinked slightly.

"Have you set a date yet?" asked Georgette.

"We've been thinking to marry before the new year," said Emma, "We already know each other quite well, so it's not like we need a long engagement to become acquainted."

"Well, that's true enough," laughed Georgette. "The rest of us have been waiting on an announcement for quite some time. Anyway, congratulations to the both of you -- you'll make a fine pair and I wish you all the happiness you both deserve!"

A chorus of hearty "Quite right" and "Hear, hear" affirmations followed.

Looking into the distance, Emma said, "Isn't that Bella and her groom coming up from the long field?"

Georgette turned to look, squinting a bit.

"I think so," added Georgette, "That's definitely her mare Charm, at any rate. Come on, Emma let's ride out to meet her and tell her the good news!" She looked over at Emma, who nodded slightly, so tacked on "Gentlemen, excuse us, please," for politeness before they rode off to meet Bella.

Once the women were out of earshot, Phillip put on an exaggeratedly sad expression and clasped one hand to his chest. "Alas, the hold-out bachelor has fallen." In a more normal tone of voice, he added, "You might have said you were planning on getting married, Will. I had a wager on bachelorhood through your thirtieth year and now I'm out fifty pounds."

Everyone laughed at that, loudest was Jacob, who was the other half of the wager.

"Really, Drake, you bet against me?" asked Will in his best mock-offended voice. "I am hurt, absolutely hurt that you lacked faith in my marriage prospects. I'll have you know that I am thought quite the catch."

"You misunderstand me entirely!" gasped Phillip, laughing. "I was wagering FOR your carefree bachelorhood, not AGAINST your marriageability. You're a good man with a solid, well-managed estate -- no issue with your prospects at all -- just didn't think you were ready to settle down yet."

"Ah, leave him to it, Phillip," said Weatherby, "We all know Emma's a fine lass and you can't blame him for wanting to secure a future with her. He may find married life a good fit even after escaping the bonds for this long. After all, you've certainly settled in to it well."

"That I have. Georgette is wonderful and Thomas and Grace are fine babies, growing up so fast it's hard to believe. You know, Grace is walking already and I swear Thomas is almost big enough for a pony of his own. It won't be long before he's joining us for the hunt."

"He may be a few years yet, Phillip. He's what, three?" said Will.

"No, just turned four in September," said Phillip with a hint of pride in his voice.

"Time slips away, doesn't it? Seems like just last year you were working up the nerve to offer for Georgette," offered Jacob.

"Knocking back the drink, you mean," put in David, grinning wickedly. "I bet he was half in the bottle when he asked her. Probably swaying side to side, too."

"What really matters is that she said yes," said Phillip, agreeably. He looked beyond David's shoulder at some figures emerging from the fog. "Hello, isn't that Pemberton and his lot, turning in to the lane? He's still got that bay with the white stockings, doesn't he?" And with that, domestic matters were set aside for the rather more interesting conversation regarding blood stock and suitable mounts for the hunt field.

\----------------------------------------

"Emma, Georgette! Hello!" said Bella. "I wasn't sure I'd get here early enough for the stirrup cup but it looks like we made fine time."

"Plenty of time," said Emma, pulling Button up. "James couldn't make it again this week?" she asked gently.

"He's still in London," sighed Bella. "Business, you know." She pulled her chestnut mare to a halt in front of Emma and Georgette.

"I'm so sorry," said Georgette. "It must be hard for you to be alone over at Buckthorne, rattling around in that house by yourself."

"Not as bad as all that," said Bella, putting on a brave face. "You know I've got the boys for company and of course Mother Eliza comes over to visit quite frequently. In fact, she's with the lads and their nurse while I'm here. She offered, said it would do me good to spend the day horseback with friends."

"Well," said Georgette, "Emma has news for us." She paused and glanced over at Emma.

Emma rolled her eyes. "You've got that far, Georgette, might as well finish it out."

"At long last, Will offered and Emma's said yes!" Georgette's big reveal lacked the punch it might have had without the buildup, but she still went for it. "They're to be wed before the new year." Emma did her best to look as enthusiastic as Georgette sounded and she almost managed it.

"Congratulations, Emma!" said Bella. "I'm so happy for you and Will! You hinted last week that you thought he might offer for real and it seems like your intuition was spot on. What took him so long anyway?" 

"I don't rightly know, but he seems certain of the way forward now," fibbed Emma, looking down and fussing with her reins. "I'm soon to be a happily married woman like the pair of you." She looked from Bella to Georgette, smiling.

Bella went a bit pale but smiled back. Georgette smiled back too, but not before she noted Bella's pallor. She offered a distraction. "It looks like Pemberton's got here finally. We need to stop gossiping and head over for the stirrup cup before there isn't any left."

Her mare Charm, extremely light to the aids, stepped forward almost as if she understood English, and Emma and Georgette turned their horses 'round so that the three of them rode back as a group toward the gathering on the lawn.

When they were within hailing distance, Weatherby took advantage. "Mrs. Howe!" said Weatherby expansively, "So glad to see you again this week! When I saw Miss Grenville and Mrs. Drake here without you, I feared you'd not be coming."

His Ember picked his way across the yard toward them, almost dancing across the lawn.

"No need to worry, Lord Weatherby," said Bella, "I wouldn't miss coming along for the world. Batcher's is something of a journey for me, though, and while I tried to head out early this morning, the children were unsettled and I got a later start than I'd wanted."

"Everything is all right at home, though?" asked Georgette, concerned.

"Oh yes, Mother Eliza has them well in-hand," said Bella, "and the house will probably still be standing when I get home, too. Now, about that stirrup cup? What will we be drinking today?"

"I've got a nice Madeira," said Jacob, to approving nods from the assembled company.

\------------------------------------------

Even though last week several ladies had expressed interest in riding along with Bella, Georgette and Emma, they were again the only three accompanying Weatherby and Bella's groom for the hilltop viewing party. While Emma was disappointed that others hadn't joined them, it gave the three some privacy and time to chat, provided they were careful to stay behind Lord Weatherby and to speak in relatively low tones which he couldn't quite catch.

"Emma," said Bella during a pause in the action where the hounds were casting about for a scent, "Are you sure about Will?"

"I am," said Emma, slightly confused by the question. "At least as sure as anyone ever is. I've known him my whole life. He's a good man, clever and sensible. He'll be a good steward for Chatham and a good father to our children and we do get on well together..." Bella and Georgette exchanged glances as Emma ground to a halt.

"Uhm, yes," said Georgette carefully, "That's all very well and good, but do you... er... want the man?"

"What?" squeaked Emma, stiffening up in a way that would have made Charm dance sideways. Button shrugged it off and stretched his head down to try for a bite of grass. He almost managed it before Emma gathered up her reins to stop him. Feeling the bit shift, Button picked his head back up and sighed.

"She wants to know if you desire him," clarified Bella, shooting a glare at Georgette for fumbling The Question.

"Oh!" Emma blushed furiously, looked down, and fussed with her reins.

"Well, that answers that," said Georgette approvingly. Emma thought to herself that it didn't answer anything at all, but she kept mute.

"So you do want him. Good. You know how it works, right?" asked Bella. "I mean, your mother has had that talk with you, I'm sure."

"I know very well how it works," said Emma shortly. She snapped her mouth shut before "thank you" could escape and throw down a gauntlet.

"Very well," said Georgette, mock-suspiciously. "I shouldn't think you imprudent enough to put the cart before the horse like that. Is there a particular _reason_ for your very prompt marriage?"

"Not at all." Emma laughed, letting her brief flare of temper go. "We do live on an estate and I'm involved with the stud at Ivy Hall. How different can it be?"

"There is typically less pee," said Georgette authoritatively, "and women don't settle as easily as mares."

"You should also mention that there's not as much squealing," added Bella, having a bit of fun.

"Speak for yourself," said Georgette, before unhelpfully adding, "and it usually takes people longer."

"Usually?" asked Emma, with a confused look on her face. At that, Georgette laughed loudly enough that Weatherby turned round.

"Are you ladies doing all right back there?" he asked.

"We're fine, thank you. I was just just telling Bella and Emma about Grace calling her dog Scraps a "tewwor" instead of a "terrier" -- what children won't say!" lied Georgette with an ease that surprised Emma.

"A what?" said Weatherby putting one hand (uselessly) to his ear.

"A tewwor, instead of a terrier" said Georgette and Bella together, loudly. 

"She's two and learning to talk. It's really quite funny, the way she says it," added Emma.

"Oh, right, right. Well, the hounds do not seem to be having any luck in this cast. If they don't catch a scent soon, the huntsman will probably head over to the hollow by the creek next. If that's where they go, we'll need to skirt 'round this hill to the other side so that we can see the action. Listen for his horn so that we can be prepared to follow when that happens." Weatherby turned back to the field, only dimly visible through the lingering fog. His horse Ember, more settled this week than last, had his ears sharply pricked towards the action but he was able to stand quietly beside Bella's groom's stolid and coarse grey instead of fidgeting and sweating.

"The pair of you!" said Emma once Weatherby was no longer interested, "I can't believe you'd compare husbands to stud horses. Surely it's more... dignified than that." Georgette choked back a snort. Bella bit the inside of her lip to avoid smiling. Emma looked from one to the other, but neither gave her any satisfactory response.

Before the silence drew out, Bella spoke up. "The particulars aside, be sure that you want him and he wants you back. Marriage works best if you are together on the same page."

"And together in the same bed," added Georgette, glancing over at Bella with a concerned expression on her face.

Bella let it pass.

"I'm sure it will be fine," said Emma firmly as a clear chorus of hounds rose up. "And I believe the hounds have caught a scent! We may see a chase yet!"

She stepped Button forward so that he was beside Weatherby's Ember. Speaking loudly and clearly, she addressed him, "Now, sir, which hound's voice was that? Who caught the scent first?"

"The strike was Chime, I think, but it was honored right away by Bugle and Lady -- they must have been right near him when he hit it," said Weatherby. "They're still in the covert -- you can hear the pack joining in, but we can't see anything with this damn fog. Blast it, if I were there, I could see..." he sighed and shifted his weight restlessly, which made Ember dance. He touched the reins and Ember stilled, nearly vibrating with excitement but obedient to Weatherby's hand. The baying of the hounds rose in volume and tempo but the fog, slow in burning off, still covered the action in the field. With actual hunting going on, Bella and Georgette joined Emma to hear Weatherby's narration.

"They're moving to the left, horses following, probably along that hedgerow beside the road. The hedgerow breaks, as I recall, near that group of trees." Weatherby pointed to a copse visible through the mist, and continued, "If he's heading that direction, and I think he is, the fox will hit open ground there and will have to run for cover before the hounds fall on him. There's no telling which direction he'll go from there -- sometimes they loop around back to where they were flushed, but you can't count on that. Foxes do what they will and the hunt has to follow."

"This fog is making it impossible to see anything," commented Georgette, disappointed. "How are we supposed to do hilltop viewing in this soup? I thought it was going to burn off this morning."

"I did too," said Emma, "but fog or no fog, it's a day out on horseback, which is far and away better than a day not on horseback." 

Bella nodded her agreement and added, "We can't control the weather or the sport. Part of the fun is not knowing what's going to happen." At that point, a fox burst from the fog, running uphill from the hollow, towards them, followed by the hounds and, a short distance back, the hunt field going hell for leather. Phillip's bright chestnut fought with Will's 'Baster for the lead, with the Batchers at their heels. All the horses were pulling hard up the slight grade in the muddy turf, flinging clods of earth behind them with every stride. They'd no more than come into sight but were gone again as the fox turned to head across the face of the hill and then headed back downhill into the mist. The field followed after, as if they were being towed by the bright red brush of the fox's tail.

"I'll wager he's heading for the creek," exclaimed Weatherby, excitedly. "Come on, then, around the hill, quickly!" The little hilltop group made their way around the hill to the other side. As they trotted along, they could hear the hounds baying and the muffled hoofbeats of horses on turf even if they couldn't see much. When they got to what Weatherby deemed the best vantage, they pulled up and listened intently. The field had gotten far enough away that only the baying of the hounds carried to them. Weatherby, who knew the hounds by name and call, narrated further. "I can't hear Chime any longer. Bugle and Lady are still speaking, but Chime... usually he rings out a high pitched bay, it's quite distinctive. I can't hear him. If he's silent, they've lost the trail."

"But the other hounds are still baying," said Emma, "So couldn't Chime be wrong?"

"He usually isn't, but no hound is perfect. He could have lost the trail, it's definitely a possibility. However, if another picked up the scent where Chime lost it, Chime would go over to see what they'd hit on, giving tongue to honor their call if it were the quarry of the day. He hasn't done that and it's been a while." Weatherby sounded quite confident. "They've lost it. The others will quit in a minute or two, you'll see."

"You can tell they've lost the scent because one dog isn't baying? He's just a dog," said Bella, "and if you only need one, why is there a pack?" 

"He's not a _dog_ ," said Weatherby, spitting the word. "He's a **foxhound**." More evenly, he continued, "There is a pack because that's how foxhounds hunt. Chime has been with the pack for the last five years. He was a good young hound when he started but now he's a master of his trade, as good as a hound can get." He drew a deep breath and regarded the mist before him before continuing. "Foxhunting is hard work and hounds do not last forever, any more than horses do, so he's got two years, maybe three, left. I'll be sorry to see him go, but right now, for this season, with this pack -- if Chime isn't calling, there isn't a scent." They looked out into the mist and listened as the baying hounds went silent, a voice dropping out here and there until there were none left. In the silence, a light rain started to fall, the drops beading up on the ladies' woolen habits.

Under her breath, so Weatherby wouldn't hear, Georgette said "With this rain, the fog isn't going to clear and we won't be able to see anything."

"I'm done," whispered Bella, "It's nearly lunchtime and I'm famished." She looked over at Emma, who nodded.

"Enough for today, I think," said Emma, quietly. More loudly, she added, "Lord Weatherby, we're heading in for the day. The weather has turned nasty and we're not going to be able to see anything more. Will you accompany us back to Batcher's?"

"Of course. Perhaps we can see about some lunch and a chair by the fire. This damp air has quite chilled me." He turned Ember toward Batchers and set off at a brisk march.


	14. Escape from Newgate

After what he had started to think of as The Day, John Markham waited, as ready as he could be. Each night, he watched the sky outside the barred window grow dark and told himself that this would be the night they came to get him from the prison. He held on to wakefulness, telling himself they would most certainly come. He waited, but the only thing he saw was the flickering lantern's light on the wall as the turnkey passed in front of his cell once an hour. And each night, fearing somewhat irrationally that he'd miss his chance if he closed his eyes, he fell into a fitful sleep only to wake before dawn in the same cell, ready because tonight would be the night, this time, for sure. It wasn't, but still he hoped because The Day had happened and he still had The Note telling him to be ready. 

He'd not given up hope, it being a thing that clung to life in substantially more trying circumstances than these, but he'd started to wonder if, in fact, they would really come for him when they actually did. On the third night after The Day, the flickering lantern's light passed by after the church had rung three and approached again before the clock had rung four. Markham didn't have time to wonder if he'd drifted off and missed the tolling of the hour before the key grated in his lock and the door swung open. His heart leapt in his chest as he sprang to his feet as quickly as he could. The turnkey stepped out of the doorway to allow three other men in. As they entered, he slipped the last one a key and then left the four of them in the dark without comment.

"What's your name?" hissed the man who'd gotten the key. He didn't have time to respond before the man continued, "Quick now, your name!"

"John Markham."

"Good, you're the one, just wanted to be sure. I'm Pip and the lad is Charlie. Strip down and give Fitz here yer clothes." In the faint light provided by the crescent moon, Markham could see that the man calling himself Pip gestured at the taller of the other two men, the one who had already kicked off his shoes and was undoing his trousers.

Markham stood and stripped without delay, his clothes barely more than filthy rags. He handed them over to Fitz in exchange for those Fitz had worn in. Fitz's clothing fit well enough to pass a cursory inspection, though anyone taking a close look would notice that the sleeves were short of his wrists and the shirt, despite having sleeves that were gathered at the shoulders, could still have used more room -- Fitz was apparently narrower even than his poorly-nourished frame. The coat covered a lot, though, and it was both roomy and warm. Once he'd set his new clothing to rights, he spoke quietly. "What now?"

"Let's go," said Pip. He turned to exit the cell, followed by Charlie. Markham went behind them, assuming Fitz would follow along. He was shocked to see Pip close the door and lock the cell with Fitz still inside.

"We can't just leave him there -- he'll be hanged!" Markham kept his voice low, but the urgency came through anyway.

"He'll be fine," said Pip. "You leave it to us, we're professionals." There was no way he could have seen John's dubious expression, but he continued on as if he had. "We have to step lively. Keep your head down, stay between me and Charlie, and don't speak." He started off at a brisk walk, trailing one hand along the hallway wall and apparently navigating more or less by feel. Markham followed after, hope bubbling up in him like water in an artesian well. Was it really going to be this easy?

Following Pip's lead, they turned a corner and Markham could see the turnkey's lantern ahead of them. Pip kept walking as if he didn't notice. Markham followed along -- what else could he do? As Pip passed the turnkey, he handed back the key without missing a step. Markham kept his head down, heart thumping in his chest, but apparently he passed muster for no alarm was raised. Before long, he was out of Newgate, standing under the faint crescent moon and breathing free air. He must have paused in the moment because Charlie, Charlie and not one of the guards, ran into him from behind. "Are ye daft? On with ye," hissed Charlie, shoving him on one shoulder to get him to move along. Markham picked up the pace and continued to follow his Pip through the mostly-deserted streets.

They'd been walking quite briskly, but for not much more than a quarter of an hour, when Pip stopped on a narrow, shabby street and beat at the door of an unremarkable house there. He'd barely gotten three raps out when the door swung open. "Right, you lot, inside," said the girl, "and quick about it, mind." She waited until they were all in and shut the door, locking it after.

Markham regarded her -- pretty enough, quite young, and... pregnant. Whore, then, he thought to himself, especially given the neighborhood and the association with criminals. He tried to catch his breath, having lost it trying to keep pace with Pip's rolling stride on the march out of Newgate -- what had come easily to Pip had not to Markham, not after his time at the poorhouse and then his confinement in Newgate. He simply stood there, gasping, mind full of questions he didn't have the breath yet to ask. He was out of Newgate and no one had stopped him. No one even raised an alarm. He couldn't believe how easy it had been. "How?" he panted, looking at Pip. "Fitz?"

"The how of it isn't your concern, suffice it to say that as much coin as was spent on springin' your scrawny arse, you ought to be gold-plated. Someone wanted you out enough to pay for it and pay well. As for Fitz, he's an old hand at being hanged -- he'll be fine. Details beyond that I ain't about to say, so quit askin'." Pip ran a hand through his hair and continued. "You're to stay here for what's left of the night, not that there's much. Get cleaned up and fed up before daybreak. A man will be by in the morning to see about getting you clothes, real clothes, and you'll need decent boots. Afore the week's out, likely ye'll be out of London proper and settled elsewhere. I expect them as bought your freedom had a word with you about that already. This here's Sarah," Pip said, gesturing to the pregnant girl, "She'll help you get sorted." He turned toward the door, "Come on, Charlie, it'll be morning before long and we've a full day ahead of us." Before John could even think to thank him, Pip was gone. He stared at the door.

"I've run a bath," offered Sarah from behind him. "Pip allowed as how you'd be here along about four, so it's piping hot if you get in now. Tub's in the kitchen." He didn't respond, still looking at the door, half-afraid to believe, really believe, that he was not going to die on the gallows. "Sir?" He felt a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle shake. "Sir? Come on, sir, the water's hot and you could sure use it." Her words finally sank in and John turned to follow Sarah to the kitchen, where a tub sat on the floor in front of the stove, tendrils of steam curling up out of it. Soap was in a dish beside the tub, towels were neatly folded on a wooden stool set next to the tub. It wasn't fancy, but it looked luxurious to Markham. "Check the water -- I've more cold to add if you need it, but hot, if ye can stand it, will take the filth of Newgate off ye better."

John dipped a hand into the water. "It's fine, thank you." Sarah didn't offer to leave, so Markham shrugged and started to strip down in front of her. If it bothered her, she'd leave and if not, she could stay. He slipped off the coat and handed it to her, then untucked the shirt and carefully rucked his (Fitz's?) shirt over his shoulders and gave that to her as well. He winced pulling off one boot, then the other, having worn blisters in his feet on the way out of Newgate, but that was small enough price to pay for freedom. He unbuttoned his trousers and stripped them off as well. Sarah gathered up his clothes and set them out of reach of the bathwater before looking him up and down as he climbed into the bath. "You've been short of rations for a while, by the looks of ye," she said. "Not quite a toast rack, but ye need feedin' up. I'll fix a plate for when you're done." She turned to the stove and busied herself with a frying pan and what he hoped was sausage.

John eased down into the hot water, which was deep enough to provide him with a hint of modesty when he'd settled onto the bottom of the tub. He washed all that he could reach, with soap and a cloth, marveling at how the dirt came off. "I can do yer back," offered Sarah from behind him. "It's not any cleaner than the rest." Instead of answering, John held up the cloth and soap. She took them from his hand and scrubbed his back, from his neck down to the waterline, then rinsed him off. She was efficient and workmanlike, no hint of seduction in the process. "You want your hair done too? It's matted, might clean up and might not." He nodded. She got a pitcher and drew dirty water from the bath to wet his hair, ignoring her proximity to his nakedness. "Close your eyes," was all the warning he got before she tilted his head forward and poured the pitcher carefully over his hair. His eyes still closed, he heard her set the pitcher down before strong, steady fingers worked soap into his hair and massaged his scalp. It was the first time anyone had touched him kindly since Dev... but he was pulled from memory when her hands left him. He must have startled because she said, "Hold still, I'm just getting water for the rinse." Markham heard her fetch more hot water from the stove and temper it with the cold. "All right, rinsing." She poured the water over his hair with one hand, using the other to work his hair and make sure all the soap got rinsed out. "Not sure how good that is, but it'll have to do," she said. "Finish up, get dried off, and put on the clothes you came in. I'll cook you some eggs in the soss grease while you manage that."

John rinsed himself again, just to be sure, and levered up, still standing in the tub so that he'd drip there. He took a towel and scrubbed his hair, then dried himself off, from the top down, carefully doing one foot before setting it outside the bath and then doing the other. He got dressed in shirt and pants but left the boots off and sat down at the table. Sarah plated the eggs and sausages at the stove and turned around towards the small table. "Here you are," she said, putting the plate somewhat unceremoniously on the table with a knife and fork beside it. "Should get you started back on the road to fed." The food smelled fantastic to John, and he set to with enthusiasm. Sarah continued, "I don't expect the tailor until around eight, so it's a good three hours you've got between now and then." He looked up at her, working through a mouthful of eggs. She added, "If you can sleep after you've et, that would probably be your best use of time. Pip said you wasn't to leave th' house until him as sprung you comes to fetch you, though it shouldn't be long. He'll probably send word at first light." At that, Markham nodded in agreemnt. He was pretty sure he was visibly wolfing down his breakfast, but he could hardly help himself. And as to the rest? Sleep, no sleep, didn't matter. Anything would be fine as long as it wasn't a walk to the gallows. 

It turned out that a hot bath and a solid meal relaxed Markham enough that he fell fast asleep almost as soon as he hit the bed only to jerk awake what seemed like moments later with Sarah shaking his shoulder. "Sir, Sir, it's time to get up! It's gone seven-thirty and the tailor is coming soon."

"What? Who?" Markham was not quick right out of the gate. If he had his druthers, for the rest of his life, he'd be offered a hot cup of tea and some sustenance before being expected to make coherent conversation.

"The tailor is due at eight," said Sarah with an air of urgency. "You need to be up and decent by then."

"Right, right," mumbled John as he rolled over sleepily. "Be right there. Breakfast?"

"I've got more eggs and soss," said Sarah. "And before you come down, I should warn you that the Missus is awake. She was asleep when ye came is why ye didn't meet her afore. She's Pip's family, and getting some age on her, so be kind."

Sarah turned to go down, a hand on the door, but stopped and turned back. "Also, there's a comb, a pitcher, and a mirror on the dresser there. Your hair..." she ground to a halt as words failed.

Markham sighed. "I know. I shouldn't have fallen asleep with it wet -- it has a mind of its own even at the best of times. I'll make an effort to tame the beast before I come down." As she left, he sat up, put his feet on the floor, and tried to work his way to functional, with partial success. He stood up and approached the dresser, which had a small stool and the aforementioned items as well as some powder and ribbons. This was a woman's room, probably Sarah's, and so he'd kept a pregnant woman from her bed. Not the best start towards his life as a more gentlemanly sort of man, but it was early days yet. In the mirror, John could see that his hair was a middling wreck, not terrible, but definitely needing some work. He dipped the comb in the water and tried to coax a semblance of order out of his hair as the scent of sausage frying wafted up the stairs.

Somewhat rumpled and with damp-but-vaguely-orderly hair, Markham arrived in the kitchen and found himself sitting down to another breakfast like the one he'd had a scant three hours previously. He hadn't had sausage and eggs for breakfast since before St. Giles and Newgate -- such luxury was not for workhouse residents or prisoners -- but on the farm where he grew up, they had run a few chickens and killed a pig every fall, sometimes two. Soss and eggs was the breakfast he'd eaten almost daily before things went so wrong. This morning, the eggs were slightly overdone and rubbery. The sausage was greasy, more fat than meat. And the breakfast, to John Markham, tasted of hope, of prosperity, of comfort and care. It was almost too much.

"You look about to cry into your eggs," said Mrs. Seymore, "But honestly, son, they're not that bad. Bess does all right at the stove for a whore."

Markham's head snapped up. Across the small table sat an old woman, regarding him curiously. He had to be slipping -- he hadn't even seen her when he came down, focused as he was on the plate of sausage and eggs awaiting him. "Bess?" he asked, confused.

"T'missus calls me 'Bess'," stage-whispered Sarah from the stove. "Don't argue with her."

"Her as what did the cooking, son," said Mrs. Seymore, gesturing vaguely towards the stove. "The pregnant one. Bess."

"Yes, right. No, the eggs are fine," said John, cutting a piece of his sausage, "I was just... thinking."

"A thinker, we've got," said Mrs. Seymore, with a chuckle. "And what shall we call you, thinker?"

"M'name's John," he mumbled, around a mouthful of sausage.

"Like so many others," mused Mrs. Seymore, almost to herself. "Well, you're not bad-looking, just shy a few meals. We can fix that, long as you like soss and eggs. Bess says the tailor's coming over today to get you set with clothes. And I expect Robbie'll be here later today to see how you look cleaned up."

"Who's Robbie?" asked John.

"He's the one what paid to get you here," said Sarah, overtop of Mrs. Seymore's "Robbie's my boy, he is."

Markham considered both pieces of information as he ate the rest of his breakfast. The man who'd come to see him in Newgate was composed, well-mannered, a steward in a fine household. Those things were skills, something any man could learn, and maybe Robbie'd learnt them after he left home. But he was also long and lean, elegant in form, in a way that personified dignity in service. Those traits were how he was made, not how he'd made himself. The woman across the table from him was round of face, not unattractive, but she had never been lean or elegant, even when she was younger. Her body, shrunken with age, still had a width of shoulder that led him to believe that in her prime she'd been what some would call a fine figure of a woman, not a slender nymph. If Robbie was her boy, he wasn't much like her at all. And if he went by 'Robbie' anywhere within earshot of his employment, then Markham was not the judge of character he thought he was.

He got the plate clean of eggs when a knock at the door let them know the tailor had arrived. John Markham spent the rest of the morning turning this way and that, being measured here and there, and answering questions about color and fabric preferences, such as he was allowed to express. For the job he was to have, the sartorial leeway was limited to 'white' or 'slightly less white', 'black' or 'very dark grey', and 'metal or ebony buttons'. He was to have three (three!) coats, five shirts, four pairs of breeches, six pairs stockings, a nightshirt, and an overcoat... more clothes than he'd ever owned at one time before this.

By lunch John was exhausted, still short of sleep from Newgate. Fortunately for him, the tailor had left by then with a page of measurements, fabric choices, and designs, promising to return for fittings in a few days. Shortly after noon rang (St. James's, faintly audible), lunch arrived in a covered pail by way of Charlie. "Pip sent it over, ma'am," he said as he handed it to Sarah.

"Thank him for me," Sarah said to Charlie, taking the pail. Noting Markham's confused expression, she added, "Probably the lunch special over at t'pub, 'e sends us some most days. It'll put meat on yer bones." The pail contained a thick stew of beef, potatoes, carrots, and gravy. To John's eye, there were rather a lot of potatoes and carrots in evidence and not so much beef, but the gravy was rich and flavorful and the stew had arrived piping hot. Sarah filled bowls for everyone from the pail and set out bread and butter to go with. John, Sarah, and Mrs. Seymore sat down to a very satisfactory lunch. John had two bowls of the stew, sopping up the gravy with thickly buttered bread.

"Keep eating like that," offered Mrs. Seymore, "And yer new clothes won't half fit ye."

"I'm half-starved at the moment," said John around a mouthful of bread and butter, "And the tailor said he'd leave a bit of room when I told him I'd been ill recently and lost a lot of weight that I intended to gain back."

"So long as he knows you're not going to stay a wraith," conceded Mrs. Seymore. "I'd half expected Robbie--" She was interrupted by a knock at the door. Sarah stepped out to answer it and came back with Robert Hensley in tow.

Hensley was as Markham remembered him, immaculate, composed, dignified. "Mum," he nodded at Mrs. Seymore before looking Markham up and down. "You cleaned up nicely," said Hensley, "And you're not a bad match for him, but you're still too thin. Tailor was out?"

"Yes, for most of the morning," replied Markham. "Are so many clothes truly necessary?"

"They are if you want to look the part," replied Hensley. "Clothes make the man, more than half the time, and until we have you trained up, clothes will help convince people you are what we say you are. So, yes. You need them."

"Without clothes, men are remarkably similar," added Mrs. Seymore, "I should know, I've seen enough of 'em." She and Sarah giggled as if they were of an age.

"Mum, stop trying to scandalize John," said Hensley fondly. "He's got quite a ways yet to go before he's safe and sound -- the last thing he needs is to be scandalized." To John, he continued, "The cobbler is coming this afternoon, boots and shoes. It'll take a week or so to get you outfitted, even as a rush job, but everything has been paid for in advance and I've been gone from service long enough. I have to get back to the estate. Send a letter to Robert Hensley, Chatham Hall, Kent when your clothes are done and I'll return to pick you up. Until then, stay indoors, be helpful, and eat up." With that he nodded to Mrs. Seymore again and was off.


	15. Hensley Returns to Chatham

The mail coach was not his favorite mode of travel, but Hensley took it back to Chatham that night. He arrived obscenely late and sank gratefully into his own bed again. Unlike the rest of the house servants, who lived in quarters in Chatham Hall, Hensley had his own residence on the estate, a smallish but comfortable house that came with his position as steward, located some distance from the Hall proper. He kept it largely by himself, with a maid of all work in twice a week to do the heavy cleaning. He didn't spend much time in his own house, due to the demands of the job, but he liked the privacy he had there and the sense of leaving for work in the mornings and arriving back home in the evenings. Meals besides breakfast he ate at the Hall, typically in the spaces around his work, but breakfasts were early -- before first light -- and he prepared and ate them in his own house as he arranged his thoughts for the day. 

The next morning, on short sleep, he was doing just that as he worked through a plate of eggs by candlelight. His trip to London had, for the most part, been a success. He'd spent slightly more than he'd intended in the end -- rush jobs for the tailoring, a few more bribes than he'd anticipated -- but it wasn't beyond what he could bury in the accounts of the estate. While Hensley felt some guilt about burying the expenses of acquiring Markham in the profits on livestock sales and grain, he consoled himself that it was, always and ever, for the good of Chatham. To that end, Markham was a reasonable expense for the estate to incur even if it was not exactly faithfully described in the records. Five hundred and fourteen pounds -- probably he should break that sum into several smaller amounts and ascribe the losses to assorted enterprises so that the burden would be spread about and a single enterprise didn't suffer a savagely bad year. It wouldn't do to have Sir scrap the entire sheep-breeding programme due to one year of trumped-up losses or to decide that Chatham would no longer grow wheat for market based on incorrect accounting. Hensley also considered that it would look quite bad if the losses happened all in one month's account. He'd have to bury it little by little so that the loss could sink unnoticed into the pool of accounts. As well, while Chatham was the major estate in the Earl's holdings, he did have several less-profitable holdings that could also eat some of the loss.

That much settled, he finished his eggs. Before leaving the house, he put on his vest, coat jacket, and overcoat, tucked his good boots in a sack, slipped on his muck boots, and walked out the door towards Chatham. He'd exchange the muddy boots for his clean, shined ones at the scullery door and spend the day looking as if mud wouldn't dare to touch him. The scullery maid knew how he managed it, as did the rest of the belowstairs folk, but he didn't think the Pitts had ever even considered how he got from the steward's house to Chatham. He supposed if they gave it any thought, they'd realize it was shank's mare on the narrow and muddy footpath but it wasn't their business to know nor his to enlighten them. All they cared, if they cared, was that he look presentable when he was at Chatham and that he could certainly manage.

\------------------------------------------------------------------

Some hours later, Will awoke and was contemplating facing the light of day after a fairly late evening with the Batcher brothers. He'd gone over for dinner, which naturally turned into drinks and whist. David and Jacob were good company and, unlike many in their set, willing to play for markers and sport rather than money. Edmund, their younger brother, made the fourth at whist. He'd lost the use of his legs to a paralytic fever when he was ten, so he hadn't been out to ride with the hunt the previous weekend, but he was a worthy partner and fierce competitor at the card table. He and Will did quite well against the elder Batchers, a gratifying series of victories for them, but the evening had run quite late and the sack had flowed freely in the process of securing said victories. This morning, his head was pounding when Standish's voice broke through the fog. "Good morning, sir."

"Quieter, please. My head is... throbbing and the morning is not looking all that good." Will sat up reluctantly and rubbed his temples. Given what his mouth tasted like, he could only assume he'd licked the rug before going to bed. Why he would do that, he'd no idea, but his mouth tasted of lint. Good lord, he'd overdone. Why he'd thought the second bottle of sack was a good idea, again, one of the mysteries of life.

"Late night at Batcher's, sir?" His valet's words were completely deferential and sympathetic but, if anything, a touch louder than his previous utterance. Right. So that's how it was. He probably deserved it, having rolled in around two in the morning, drunk enough to be problematic to undress and put to bed if not actually sick all over everything.

"I didn't intend for it to be, but they're good company and we got to talking...," he sighed, which hurt his head further, "and drinking and cards and suddenly it was after midnight."

"I see, sir." Standish let a hint of irritation seep into his tone.

"It's been a while since I tied one on this hard, but I don't remember the morning-afters being anywhere near this bad back in the day."

"Couldn't say how you handled your drink prior to this, sir, as this is the first time I've seen you so far in cups. I have heard that it's harder and harder to bounce back from a good carouse as you get older, though."

"You're not making me feel any younger this morning, Standish."

"Wasn't trying to, sir. I'll ring for a maid and see if we can't get some breakfast sent up. You can see if that stays down you any better than Jacob Batcher's Madeira." Damn, he had been sick all over everything, then. No wonder Standish was pissed. Standish rang for the maid and when Lucy arrived, ordered breakfast for Will. "Right, that's on the way. Now, sir, you need to be up and have a wash, I've some warm water and a cloth here, and we'll see about getting some clothes on you." Will let Standish wash his face and shave him, submitted to shirt and stock and waistcoat and coat and pants and boots and fixing his hair all the while wishing quietly for his head to quit spinning. What had been fun the night before was lingering on far too long in the morning after. By the time Standish had Will looking the part, Lucy was back with the tray. She set it on the sideboard next to the small table in the room, nodded at Standish, and left to complete her morning chores, which had been interrupted by the request.

"Let's get some tea in you first," said Standish, "and see how that settles before trying solids." He poured a cup from the pot, added several lumps of sugar, and handed the cup and saucer to Will, who was seated on the edge of bed. Will, looking slightly less green than he had when he'd first opened his eyes, took a small sip of the tea. It tasted better than he thought it would. He tried another sip, then put the cup and saucer on the nightstand. 

"Why are you so interested to see me up and about? As far as I know, there's no pressing business today."

"As far as you know," said Standish, "But not as far as I know." He grinned. "When you came home in your cups and promptly threw up on your boots, it became abundantly clear to me that you were in no state for news. So, I didn't bother telling you that Hensley had come back from London on the mail coach."

"Hensley's back?" Will perked up considerably on hearing that bit of news.

Standish nodded, then added, "He's asked to see you when you're ready for company. He'll be in the library all morning, working on accounts, so you have time to eat properly first." Standish looked resolute. "Tea, then dry toast, then porridge, in that order. You'll feel better with some solid food in you, I'm sure of it." Standish's tone brooked no disagreement.

Obediently, Will picked up his tea again and sipped at it some more. "Did Hensley say anything besides that he wanted to see me?"

"He did not, sir," said Standish evenly, "But you shouldn't have expected him to do so. In this matter, circumspection must be ever the watchword. Inadvertent disclosure of the situation will almost certainly result in scandal and ruin." Will found the tea now tasted almost good, so he continued to drink it, with pauses, as he considered Standish's response.

"It hasn't yet," noted Will, "and that's Hensley, Emma, Hobbs, and you who are in on it. Probably also Wilkins, he's been having odd little chats with me of late. Call it five people, no ruin or scandal yet. I think people are more willing to turn a blind eye to this sort of thing than you think." His stomach felt like it had settled a little, so he got up and fetched a piece of the toast and started to crunch his way through that.

"Take it seriously, sir!" Standish sounded worried. "The more people that know, the greater the risk. Of the ones you have listed, Hobbs can't put your neck in a noose without also risking his. Wilkins cares only for horses and how people treat them -- you've no worries there as long as you remain a fair and kind horseman. Emma is quite fond of you and does not want to see you hurt. Hensley not only makes a fine living as steward but also would rather die than see you enmeshed in scandal or ruin. And then there's me. Of the five, I have not quite got grounds for loyalty of the sort you need."

"You make it sound like there's not much keeping you from sending me to the gallows," mused Will, suddenly on edge. He finished his tea and got up to pour another cup, turning his back to Standish.

"Not at all the case," assured Standish, "I'm thankful to be able to exercise my talents in matters sartorial instead of being a tenant farmer like my father and my uncles. I've seen that life and I'd rather this one. Service in your household also affords me a fair shot, in due time, at butler of this fine house or another. I've absolutely no reason to throw you to the wolves -- it would put me out of work, ruin any chance of a reference, and leave me without a livelihood."

Will slugged back half the cup of tea, his temper rising. "You wouldn't sell me out because you don't want to lose your job?!" He clinked the teacup down firmly on its saucer and turned on Standish, voice raised, "What kind of a basis is that for my safety?"

"My point exactly, sir. What kind of basis, indeed," said Standish, noting the gathering storm of Will's temper. He hurried to explain, "The more people who become entrusted with this information, the more likely it is that one or more of them will be less than worthy to hold your life in their hands. There is no need to give everyone who knows you the means to destroy you. Going forward, you will need to keep the circle of people who know the full of it very small, as small as possible, and be constantly vigilant about not letting that number increase. Your life depends upon it. Emma's life depends upon it. The future of the earldom and Chatham depend upon it." Standish watched Will's temper ease slightly as he explained.

"I'll have to be forever on edge, tiptoeing around and always minding what I say and to whom I say it," said Will, petulantly, some of his mood no doubt from his hangover. "It's no kind of life, that."

Standish moved to uncover the porridge and placed a spoon in it. He picked the bowl up and handed it to Will. "Eat this." He watched as Will scooped out porridge more fiercely than the poor grains deserved. "It's not really so different from how your life is now, is it?" Will looked at him, brow wrinkled. "You can't be openly affectionate now, can you? Can't court, can't flirt, can't do anything but hide your inclinations, risking death or exposure any time you try to meet someone. So you're already having no kind of life and, at your age, getting a little old for the 'confirmed bachelor' route, too. People aren't quite speculating yet but they do think you've been dragging your feet to the altar with Miss Emma."

"I know," said Will. "Friends have been asking me, quietly, if there was a reason I hadn't already offered for her, at least since I got back from Egypt. It's amazing the amount of interest people have in other people's lives."

"So, your no-kind-of-life that you already have now, the one where you have to hide who you are and can't meet anyone without facing exposure, would that life be better or worse with a steady companion in your bed? Better or worse with a partner to grow old alongside? Better or worse with children to watch grow into fine young people?"

"Everything you say is true, but it's not fair! I didn't choose to be this way. Believe me, if it were possible to change by dint of trying, I would not be in the position I am in. I have tried and beyond tried to be other than what I am." Will stabbed his spoon angrily into the porridge and took another mouthful.

"Sometimes, sir, there is nothing to do but make the best of a situation. I fear that this is one of those times," said Standish, not unkindly. "But to get back to my original point, in order for you to succeed, you need to master circumspection surrounding the matter." Will continued eating his porridge, so Standish kept talking. "Five people is probably two too many -- ideally the only ones who would know would be the people directly, er, involved."

"I don't see how we can possibly uninform those who know at this point," said Will, setting aside the empty bowl and dabbing his face with a napkin. "But I will agree to more circumspection as we go on from here. It's not like I haven't had practice. At any rate, you said Hensley was in the library?"

"Yes, sir. He said he'd be there past noon today."

"Thank you, Standish. I feel much better having had breakfast, and I'll head over there now."

\------------------------------------------------------------

When Will got to the library, Hensley was at the accounts, just as Standish had said he would be. "You asked to see me?" said Will, trying for a fairly neutral opening as he sat in the chair closest to the table where Hensley was working.

Hensley looked up from the account books and laid his quill to the side in a measured, careful fashion before he replied. "Yes. My recent trip to London was, as you no doubt surmised, on your behalf. I believe I have located a man who will be able to take my place when I retire as well as accomplish the, er, other work you require of him."

"How on earth did you find someone so quickly?" Will was genuinely curious.

"I have extensive contacts in London and I'd recently asked them to keep an eye out for the sort of man that might suit Chatham's needs. One of my contacts, happily, sent word in the reply post that a man such as we might be looking for was available so I went to see him for myself. I spoke to him, briefly, and made arrangements to free him from his obligations in town that he might come here as a prospective hire for the position of estate steward. As I expect that you and Miss Emma would probably like to look him over before deciding on his suitability, I will bring him from London as soon as his business there is settled. He should be here within a week, week and a half at the most." Hensley looked well-pleased with himself.

"That's... amazing news," said Will, continuing, "but it has caught me flat-footed. I hadn't any expectation of you finding someone this quickly and I have not given much thought to how to determine if he will suit or not. Neither, I suspect, has Miss Emma." In that, Will was being less than truthful. If anything, he and Miss Emma had probably been giving too much thought to how they'd determine if he'd suit.

"Well," said Hensley, "You have some time to think about that before he gets here." He paused, struck by an idea. "In the event that you'd like to meet with him in privacy, and I expect that you would, that could be arranged at the steward's house. It's part of the compensation for the position of steward, so no-one will think it odd that he stays there while considering whether or not to take the position. It's not too far from the house, so you and Miss Emma could go out for a constitutional and end up there without anyone being overly concerned as to your whereabouts."

"How long do we have to decide on him?" asked Will. 

"A few days," said Hensley. "During that time, I'll also be taking him 'round to the estates, showing him the fields and livestock, and acquainting him with the duties and responsibilities of steward. He needs to understand and be willing to take on the stewarding as well as the other work if this venture is to be successful." 

"That seems like a reasonable amount of time," said Will, "but if he's from London, does he even know anything about agriculture?"

"I urge you caution in asking about his past," said Hensley carefully. "In my experience, a man whose life is proceeding in a smooth and even track towards success and happiness is not a man who can be uprooted and moved at a moment's notice. As this man is willing to cut ties with his past and move out here to begin anew, I urge you to focus not on what he was before but to look at what he is capable of becoming."

"I don't have any skill at divining the future," said Will, running a hand through his hair and spoiling all of Standish's careful effort. "How am I to know what a man might become?"

"How did you know that the little horse from Egypt would suit your English mares so well?" asked Hensley. "How did you pick Alabaster from the entire year's foal crop as the best of the lot?"

"That's just horses," said Will. "The nature of horses is simple and easy to read; the shape of foals clearly suggestive of the horses they will become. People are much more complicated."

"The difference is in degree, not in kind," said Hensley. "And you can read people better than you think, since you picked Thomas Hobb, and him alone, out of the entire staff and employment of the estate, to proposition. You've been very, very circumspect ere now and your success owes much to your ability to judge people as truly as you judge horseflesh."

"Couldn't have been that circumspect," said Will, biting out the words. "You knew. Standish knew, Mrs. Grenville, even Emma knew." He stood up and started pacing. "Practically the whole world knew."

"It was my business to know," said Hensley gently. "How else was I going to be able to keep you safe?" Will looked abashed but unconvinced as Hensley continued. "Standish is your valet. He's been by your side and in your pockets since you returned from Egypt. He'd have to be blind and deaf to overlook the lack of partners in your bed or the utter celibacy with which you regard the fairer sex." Will nodded at that, granting the point.

"But the Grenvilles?"

"As you know, Mrs. Grenville had personal reasons to be exceptionally watchful and no doubt she told Miss Emma. You can't take them for the whole of the countryside." Hensley hoped he was getting through to Will, but more importantly, this derail had steered the conversation away from Markham's past, so he was counting it a win. "At any rate, please inform Miss Emma that the plan is in motion and I've selected a candidate whom I think will work nicely, said candidate to be here within the fortnight." With that, Hensley sat back down to his accounts and picked up his quill, clearly dismissing Will.

Will thanked Hensley and left to find Emma. A week and a half? He couldn't believe it. He'd just got his mind round the idea of finding a suitable man and here Hensley was proposing a candidate. Ye gods, this was moving along rapidly, too rapidly for Will's taste, but he consoled himself with the thought that at least he'd not suffer the next week and a half alone. Emma had placed herself in the boat with him, so no matter what happened, he'd be in good company.


	16. John Markham Waits For Clothes In London

After the whirlwind of tailor and cobbler, John had nothing much to do but wait for his clothes to be finished and eat. He had been explicitly instructed not to leave Mrs. Seymore's house until Hensley came back for him, which left him with few options for diversion besides Mrs. Seymore, Sarah called Bess, and the runner who brought lunch daily from The Pub, it being otherwise nameless as far as he knew. He didn't know much about his current location -- not even the name of the street they were on. He'd been too distracted on fleeing Newgate to note his surroundings or remember the path Pip followed on the trip to Mrs. Seymore's. The bells ringing the hours were St. James's in Clerkenwell, he was pretty sure, but neither Mrs. Seymore nor Sarah offered any further information on that front.

It fell to Sarah, mostly, to entertain him. The first day was easy -- the day was full of activity what with the tailor and the cobbler and Hensley. Besides that, his own person was empty enough of food for regular meals to be sufficient entertainment unto themselves. The second day, which began with yet another appearance of soss and eggs, done as poorly as before, took a rather different turn. "Can you cook anything besides soss and eggs?" asked Markham as Sarah set the plate down in front of him. "Please don't think me ungrateful -- I am glad to be looking at a hot breakfast instead of a short walk to a sharp drop -- but a bit of variety in the menu wouldn't go amiss."

"I'm not much of a cook," replied Sarah. "Ye ken how I make my living, I expect, and it ain't in the kitchen. I can handle soss and eggs, make tea, and fix toast. That's pretty much what we eat, except for the pub lunches."

"Could you get me taties and an onion? Not for today, for tomorrow."

"I can send the runner from the pub -- he does shopping for us now and again, especially since it's getting harder for me to get through the streets."

"Thank you, Sarah. And if you'd like, I can teach you how to cook other things. If not for you, perhaps Mrs. Seymore would eat more if she had choices."

"She does have a lot of days where she just pushes her breakfast around the plate," admitted Sarah, "which I wouldn't admit to if she was awake to hear me say it. I get enough from her about my cooking already. But you can cook? Why'd you know something like that?"

"We were tenant farmers -- whoever was up first started the stove to warm up the house and then, well, it wasn't a far step from there to breakfast. I'm not a fancy cook, but I can manage breakfasts pretty well."

"Well, cook or not, yer real trade is mine, 'least that's what t'missus said afore ye got here. Not sure why they're spending a mint getting you fine clothes when you're not like to need them for yer job."

"I'm to take care of the estate, to manage the lands and livestock, to keep the accounts and things," said Markham. "That's what the clothes are for. I'm not going to be a..." He didn't finish the thought but it hung there in the air between them.

"Say what ye like, it don't matter none," said Sarah. "If you don't work out in bed, I expect you'll find yourself out on your ear. They'll find someone else to do the managing, one they won't have to train up from nothing. 'S a bit of a plum job to be giving away to the likes of you if you can't do the other, innit?" Sarah sat down at the table with her own plate of soss and eggs. "T'missus said you were for a couple, a man and a woman. How's that work? Are ye a molly, or a man?" she asked, popping a bite of sausage in her mouth and looking at him expectantly.

Markham played with cutting his sausage into pieces while he composed an answer. When he answered, he kept his voice level and calm. "Both molly and man, I suppose. I've fucked men and women both, like 'em equally well, and I was married, once."

At that, Sarah raised an eyebrow, questioningly. "Oh? What happened to her?"

"She died."

"I'm sorry."

"Me, too." With that, the conversation stalled and they ate in silence for a while.

"So you're for him and for her both," said Sarah, resurrecting the conversation from its coffin of awkward silence. "I'd guess he's got some idea of what's what, else he'd not know he was for men and not women. And I expect you know enough about having a man to make that work if there's any chance of success." She took a sip of her tea before continuing. "How about her? If she's a proper lady, probably she ain't had a man yet."

Markham looked thoughtful. "I don't know much about them but I believe she's a proper lady. But it'll be fine. I did say I'd had a wife. She won't be my first."

"That don't mean much." Sarah sighed and pressed onward, right past Markham's expression of shock. "You know I fuck for money, right?" John nodded. "And there's damn few who give any care for a whore's pleasure in the act, granted, but even allowin' for that, most men know almost nothing about fucking a woman."

"What?" He hadn't squawked, precisely, but he had been startled by her bald statement.

"They're just... awful at it, is all." To Markham, Sarah didn't sound mean-spirited about it, more... amused. She leaned forward, the movement and the expression on her face lending an air of conspiracy to her words, and continued, "If ye want to win and keep the fancy job in the nice big manor house, ye've got to get her to want you even if she's not in love with you. And that, the wanting without love, that's going to take actual skill in the bedroom."

"Molly never complained," said John, more defensively than he would have liked, "She sought me out near as often as I sought her."

"She was in love with you," countered Sarah, not unkindly, "and that makes a lot of difference. This lady is not going to be in love with you, least not at the start."

"This lady's not got anything to compare to," said Markham, "so how could I possibly be found wanting?"

"She might not have anything to compare to but she's going to know what she likes and what she don't. You've got a leg up to start because she hasn't had a man before -- the first few goes, anyone can get by on her curiosity, but after that you're going to have to get it done."

"Oh, I can get it done," growled Markham, offended, "you needn't worry on that front."

Sarah laughed, which only ired him further. She didn't seem to notice or care. "Not get you done. Damn near every man can fuck 'till he spills, that's not even a question. I mean get her done." Markham, confused, didn't have time to put a question on the table before she continued. "Look, women don't spill like a man does, but the way a cock jerks and throbs when a man comes? That part, there? Women can do that part, up inside themselves. They can come, did ye know?" She cocked her head at him, looking for his reaction with her amusement clear on her face.

He had not known nor ever thought to ask. Molly'd never said anything about it, either. She was enthusiastic, warm and willing, turned to him every time he'd so much as thought of having her. But, had she come? Had she not? Shit, he had no idea. None. He gritted his teeth, hating the moment, and granted the point out loud. "No, I didn't know."

"Good on ya for admitting that. First thing is to know what you don't know, so we're there." Sarah smiled at him, which he didn't see because he was staring at his empty plate and hating the fact that his face was currently flushed red from the slip of a whore schooling him on women's pleasure.

Markham thought to himself that she sounded pleased. He didn't understand but scarce had time to ponder that before another thought struck him, more pressing than the first. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. "If women don't spill as a man does," he said to his plate, "then how is a man to tell she's come or not?"

"Easiest way is to ask her, but if she's not before, she might not know one way or t'other. Sometimes you can feel the little fluttery contractions inside her cunny, if you're holding still and paying attention. If you've a finger or a cock up her arse, ye can feel it there, too, same as a man's." Sarah stood and collected the plates from the table. "You chew on that, now, and I'll go see if Mrs. Seymore is up yet and interested in breakfast." When she came back, with Mrs. Seymore on her arm, having taken the time to help the older woman out of bed, through her morning routine, and into her day clothes, he was still at the table, lost in thought. "Here ye go, ma'am," she said, helping Mrs. Seymore to the chair she'd been sitting in. "Eggs and soss? A cup of tea?"

"It's always eggs and soss," grumbled Mrs. Seymore, "Haven't you got anything good to eat? And yes, tea. I'm a cold, old woman and I'd like to at least warm my hands on the cup."

"You want another, too?" she said to John. 

"May as well." She had turned to the stove to see about tea and breakfast for Mrs. Seymore when he continued, "Look, are you sure about men mostly being awful in bed? Maybe it's just you that doesn't like it, or that you've done too much of it and wore the pleasure out since it's your job."

Sarah snorted derisively.

Mrs. Seymore laughed. "She told you that, did she? Well, she's not far wrong. Most men know little to nothing about fucking except what they want. There are a few who take an interest, but most of them? Hardly worth gettin' naked for if they're not payin'."

Markham threw up his hands. "Fine. If you two know so much about it, then school me. Tell me what I need to know."

"Well," said Sarah, looking quite like the cat that had got the cream, "First thing to get your mind 'round is that a man gets hard in roughly the time it takes him to fetch his cock out of his pants, maybe summat longer if he's had aught to drink or is older. It don't take long for a cock to be interested in goings-on, is what I'm sayin'." Markham nodded. "Women take longer to hot up, to get wet. So, where you might well be ready to fuck at the drop of your fall-front, odds are good she ain't."

Markham opened his mouth to protest but was cut off by Mrs. Seymore before he could speak. "Bess, look at his face, the poor lad's about to tell you he's never fucked a dry cunt," cackled Mrs. Seymore.

Markham snapped his mouth shut, his ire coming back because she was on point. That, or something similar to it, was exactly what he'd been planning on saying.

Mrs. Seymore continued, pretending she hadn't paused to watch him shut his mouth. "All women are at least a little wet, all the time. If they weren't, they'd squeak when they walked." She chuckled at her own joke. "Bess means wet like for sex, which is different."

John knew his face must have shown a complete lack of understanding because Mrs. Seymore paused, looked kindly at him, drew a deep breath, and set to try again. Damn his face, he thought. Damn this conversation. Damn it all. His distress was cut short by Mrs. Seymore's next attempt.

"Now, you don't have a cunt but you do have a mouth. You know how your mouth is wet all the time?" John nodded, curious as to where this was going. "And that's everyday wet. But think about right before you're about to be sick all over everything. Think of how your mouth wets then. Different, right?" He nodded again, no stranger to the feeling of being sick from too much drink, not when he'd spent the time between Molly's death and St. Giles' in the bottle. She waited for his nod, then concluded. "So, cunts work like that, 'least they can if you give 'em a half a chance. There's 'regular wet' and then there's 'ready for sex' wet and you've got to be able to tell one from the other."

"I thought that if she wasn't, then you couldn't... I mean, you can't fuck with a cock that's not hard..." said Markham.

"Not that men don't try..." interrupted Sarah, laughing.

"Might as well try pushing on a rope," cut in Mrs. Seymore.

"Just so," agreed Markham, wondering exactly which of his life's misdeeds had led him to this particular purgatory, "But you're telling me that a cunt works for fucking even if the owner's not inclined?"

"Yes," said Sarah, over her shoulder from the stove. "Just 'cause you can stuff yer cock in her slit doesn't mean she's ready to fuck. If you're making a fair effort, you can shove a stiff prick into most any cunt, especially if she ain't tryin' ta stop it. It don't hurt her much and once yer in, if ye move about a little, she'll slick up some whether she wants to or not. Ain't none of that mean she's of a mind for fucking. Did ye think whores went about their days dripping wet between their legs? As if! That's no more likely than men going around hard in their trousers all the time. Also, we'd starve if we only fucked when we wanted to."

Honestly, Markham hadn't ever given much thought to the desires of whores. He'd never had ready coin for whoring nor the inclination to pay for it, so the hows and whys of whoring hadn't ever crossed his mind. Whoring was a thing that some women did for money, a fact of life in London, and that's about all he knew of it.

"It's not just the wet," said Sarah, bringing over the tea and pouring cups for Markham and Mrs. Seymore. "The whole of the thing swells up, kind of like a cock does, only it doesn't get rigid and insistent like a cock. A fella who fancied himself a poet once told me a cunt slicking up and swelling looked like a flower blooming but it don't, really, less you know about some slippery, pinkish-brown flowers the likes of which I've never seen. (He was a lot better at fucking than at poetry.) Dress it up however you like, though, the point remains that cunts take more time to get ready for sex than a man is usually willing to give 'em." Mrs. Seymore nodded in agreement before slurping at her tea.

"Did you sugar this, Bess? It doesn't taste like there's any sugar in it."

"I did, ma'am. Did you stir it?" Mrs. Seymore looked petulant. Sarah picked up the teaspoon from right next to Mrs. Seymore's hand and handed it to her. "Here's your spoon," she said reasonably, "Try stirring it." Mrs. Seymore stirred her tea, clinking the spoon maliciously against the side of the cup with every pass, and then slurped at the tea again and made a face.

"Are you sure you put sugar in it?"

"Yes, ma'am. Three spoons, same as every other day."

Mrs. Seymore sighed theatrically. "I'll just have to make do, then. Don't mind me, I'm just a cold, old woman."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Sure you are, and you've told me that already this morning. I don't know how you can be cold in this kitchen -- there's sweat beading on my brow."

Privately, Markham had to agree with Sarah -- the room was quite warm, well-heated by the stove going constantly -- but he didn't say anything because his mind was back on the conversation he'd just had. He'd started the morning with "I can teach you to cook" but Sarah grabbed the reins of the conversation and drove it off a cliff. When she'd joined them, Mrs. Seymore hadn't offered any objection to the subject matter but instead joined in with cackling enthusiasm. Their words were softened by laughter (mostly at his expense or the expense of his gender), but the tack was clear -- he was being schooled on sex with women as if he knew nothing. But why? How did they get here? He thought back to Sarah's words -- _If ye want to win and keep the fancy job in the nice big manor house, ye've got to get her to want you_ \-- this was Hensley's doing. Hensley had picked him out of Newgate. Hensley had ordered a fortune in clothes so that he'd look the part. And now, Hensley was seeing to it, via his proxies, that Markham would be assured of the skills for the job. Markham smiled to himself, chuffed for having figured it out. Sarah and Mrs. Seymore had had some fun at his expense today, but turnabout was fair play and suddenly the rest of the wait for his clothing, cooped up in this small house, looked a lot more promising on the entertainment front.


	17. Emma Visits Bella Howe

Tuesday after the hunt at Batcher's, the day dawned clear and dry, so Emma took the carriage over to Bella's house for a day of visiting. Bella had extended the invitation while they were warming up by the fire after the grey and foggy day of hunting and Emma though it might distract her from wondering about the man Hensley had found. She'd been able to think of little else since Will had told her the news.

When the carriage turned into the Howe's drive, Emma noticed that the drive was badly rutted, mud rising up through the stones. As the carriage proceeded towards the house, it shifted unevenly from side to side. At one point, the rear wheels slid disconcertingly sideways upon hitting a particularly deep and waterlogged rut. Emma thought for a second that the carriage might be stuck, but it jolted suddenly forward again as the horses lunged into their harness, hindquarters undoubtedly straining from the effort. She felt somewhat relieved when they made it to the house without becoming stuck.

At the house, Bella's footmen greeted her and the butler ushered her into the sitting room, where Bella, her sons Charles and Mason, and their nurse Mary were enjoying a quiet morning at home. The boys were wee lads, not much more than babies. Emma was surprised to see them out of the nursery, but they were playing quietly on the floor with the nurse supervising them closely. Mason had a ball; Charles had a few toy soldiers he was standing up and then knocking down.

"Emma, I'm so glad you could come over," said Bella, rising to greet Emma as the butler announced her. "Were the roads all right? I know travel can be vexing, especially with the rain we've been having of late."

"No trouble at all," said Emma, "it was an easy journey and I'm glad to be out of the house. My mother's been doing nothing but fussing over wedding plans, which is bad enough but my little sister Abigail is near beside herself with excitement. Neither one can give me a moment's peace -- the atmosphere at home is smothering. It's a breath of fresh air to be apart from both of them for a spell."

"I'm sure your nerves are frayed because of them fussing over you and not because of your own altar jitters," said Bella with an overabundance of faux concern, her eyes sparkling. Emma rolled her eyes. Bella chuckled. "In seriousness, now, have you and Will set a date?"

"He's talking to the priest today to see what date would suit. We've another week for the third reading of the banns, so it won't be before then no matter his father's interest in haste." Emma sighed. "I know he's anxious to see Will settled, but being shoved this quickly along the petal-strewn road to marital bliss by all around us is a little tiresome."

At that point, Mason dropped his ball and had it taken up by Charles. Offended, he started to wail. Speaking over her son's unhappiness, Bella said, "Mary, I think the boys could do with some lunch and then, perhaps, a nap. And could you send word to the kitchen to bring us up some tea and a light snack?"

"Of course, ma'am," said Mary, deftly taking Charles's small, pudgy hand in her left and using her right hand to scoop up Mason onto her other hip before bustling out of the room to get the boys fed and settled.

"That's odd," said Bella as quiet reigned again in the sitting room, "Usually it's the groom and bride who can barely wait. What's behind this urgency?" Bella looked thoughtful a moment, then asked, "Is Chatham well?"

"Sir John looks to my eye that he's lost weight recently -- his clothes are a touch roomy where last year they were not -- and he's not a young man by any means. Other than that," fibbed Emma, "I don't know anything definite. Perhaps he has his reasons for rushing us to the altar."

"Whatever's behind it, likely you'll be a married woman before Christmas, then. You've... some idea what to expect? I know I asked at the hunt, but maybe you didn't want to speak plainly in front of Georgette." Bella sounded concerned and her eyes showed nothing but honest worry.

"I've as much an idea as many brides and more than most," said Bella with what she hoped was confidence. "I've no practical experience, of course, but Mama has been quite plain-spoken as to the mechanics of the act. Even if I'd been in need of information, Georgette's presence wouldn't have stopped me from admitting it. We only met when she married Phillip, but she's become a dear and trusted intimate since then."

"That sets my mind more at ease," admitted Bella. "I wish I had been as well-informed as you seem to be when I went to my wedding bed. Mama, as you are aware, has ever been quite old-fashioned and it was her view that young ladies were best taught all they needed to know by their husbands, after the wedding."

"So what's it like, really?"

"It's a skill like any other -- you'll improve with practice -- but in the beginning it's somewhat awkward, knees and elbows everywhere. Braid your hair when you go to bed -- leaving it loose is just asking for a mess. It'll be in the way or he'll rest on it or accidentally pull it or something. Of course, we were raw novices as newlyweds and James was," here Bella broke off with an aside, "You must swear to never breathe a word of this," and she waited for Emma's nod before continuing, "so nervous!" She chuckled a little, her voice warm with the memory. "As was I, going blind into the darkness as my mother thought proper, though it wasn't even dark. James would not put out the candle." At Emma's shocked expression, she explained, "Once you are wed, of course, your husband is allowed to look his fill, to touch, to taste, to explore. And, if he's any sense in his head at all, you are also allowed to do the same to him. It was very odd, to have that liberty of a man and allow him that liberty with me after spending my girlhood being trained up for chaste, ladylike behavior."

"Yes," said Emma, somewhat exasperated, "all of that makes a great deal of sense, but what's it LIKE?"

"Sweaty. Slippery. Rhythmic. Kissing is quite nice when they're allowed to do more than brush their lips to the back of your gloved hand. The rest of it, I expect, will depend somewhat on his preferences and yours. Humans, I hear, exhibit more variety and creativity in the act than horses."

"Well, did you like it?" Emma knew sounded a touch frustrated, but felt that it was justified in the face of such unhelpful information. How was 'slippery' a description, anyway?

"It was quite odd, at first, but yes, I grew to like it fairly rapidly. James, for his part, also seemed to enjoy it thoroughly," said Bella, wistfully, lost in the past tense.

"Seemed to? Doesn't he now?"

"I have to think he doesn't. He... he hasn't touched me since Mason was born," admitted Bella, in a rush. Once those words were out, though, more followed as if a dam had broken. "You recall, I labored for the better part of two days with Mason." Emma nodded. She hadn't, as an unmarried friend, been involved or present at the birth but she did remember how frail Bella had seemed for weeks afterward. "Second babies, I'd heard, came easier than first ones but that wasn't the way of it for me. It was a difficult delivery and things ... tore rather badly during the birth. Doctor Carter said I should get at least a month of lying-in and that I should wait two full months for everything to finish healing before we could, you know, resume relations. James seemed to take the news well, but afterward he went straight away to London and stayed there for several weeks while I was at home lying-in. He came back before the two months had run but he hasn't touched me since."

"Mason's almost two now, though, isn't he?"

"He turned two the beginning of November."

"Has he said what the matter is?" asked Emma. "Has he taken a mistress? Can he not...?"

"He's never given me any reason at all and believe me, I've asked," said Bella. She looked at her hands in her lap, addressing them. "When he's home, he claims to love me and swears he's faithful. We haven't fallen out or argued about anything serious enough to cause this breach." She sighed heavily. "He hardly looks at me when he's here which is seldom enough, and he won't touch me, won't kiss me, won't try to..." She broke off, her lashes wet and clotted from the tears pooling in her eyes, and took a deep breath before continuing. "He won't tell me why he's so distant. I've asked and asked. He turns away from me, tells me that he's not to be pushed on the matter, tells me to leave him alone." Her voice broke, little hiccuping sobs sneaking out between her words as she went on. "He's so cold to me. It's not just me, either. He's distant from our sons. They want hugs and kisses from their papa. He tells Mary to take them away. He says he doesn't have 'time for mere infants'." Emma gasped aloud. Bella looked up from her hands, tears streaking her cheeks before they fell to make dark polkadots on her light green skirt, and hastened to explain. "He wasn't like that when it was just Charles. Back then, I'd never seen a prouder father. Even when Charlie was a small babe, James held him and talked to him. As he grew, James dandled him on his knee and tossed him gently in the air." She smiled through her tears at the memory. "Though it worried me, Charlie would squeal with delight at that and I swear James was just as happy as the babe. I've no idea where everything went so wrong."

"Oh, Bella," said Emma, "I'm so sorry! Possibly his concerns in London have taken a turn for the worse? Could he be exhausting himself trying to set them right?" Emma didn't like to suggest financial difficulties as the cause of the breach between Bella and James, but financial difficulties could be weathered and reversals of fortune were not unheard of. It was better than suggesting James had totally lost interest in his wife.

"Whatever he's doing in London, it has more to do with gin and gambling hells than with his alleged businesses," sobbed Bella, "My aunt Prudence has written me repeatedly that she is hearing about how much time he spends in his cups and at cards. _People will talk_ ," mimicked Bella in a sharp, scolding voice, " _but typically not without grounds. Isn't there something you could do to keep him home and away from those pits of sin?_ " In her normal voice, anger taking the place of tears, Bella continued, "She makes it sound like it's my fault he's there!"

"I'm sure it's nothing you did, certain of it. In this, Bella, you are blameless." Emma put all the reassurance she had into the statement while wondering privately what on earth James was playing at to hurt his poor wife so.

"He's never been one for drink or excessive gambling," said Bella, "So I've no idea from whence these accusations spring. None of this is like the man I married!" Her voice rose as she continued, "How can he do this to me? To our sons? Am I to sit idly by while he beggars us through whist and gin?"

She sounded desperate, thought Emma, and probably had to be to disclose her private life to anyone, even her bosom friend from childhood.

Quickly, perhaps incautiously, Emma said, "You know, Hensley, has some contacts in London. He's the very soul of circumspect discretion when handling sensitive matters, Will vouches for him unreservedly. If you'd like, I could ask Will to ask him to make a few quiet inquiries. Solid information could help you determine if the talk of the town was based in fact or malice."

"Hensley?" asked Bella. "The steward?"

Emma nodded, encouragingly.

"I don't know," Bella said slowly, "it seems dishonest, somehow, like I'm spying on him."

"If he'd talk to you, treat you as a partner in marriage, you wouldn't be forced to use such tactics. His behavior owes you an explanation at the very least and you deserve to know if he's bankrupting Buckthorne, if not for your own sake, then for that of your sons." Emma's eyes were sad as she continued, "Not that there's anything that you can do to stop him if he is, the law of the land being what it is."

"You're sure he'll be discreet?" By now, Bella's tears had dried and she'd regained some of her composure.

"Positive. No-one will ever know unless you tell them. And, depending on what you learn, you need not confront James if there's nothing to be gained from so doing."

"In that case," said Bella, "please ask Hensley to find out what's going on with James." She gave a weak smile, which Emma returned.

At that juncture, Kate, who had been waiting outside the door for rather a while, came into the sitting room with a tray of tea and a plate of lightly-sweet biscuits to accompany it. "Your tea, ma'am," she said politely, putting the tray down on the sideboard and leaving before anything she shouldn't be seen to overhear was said.


	18. Breakfast and Strategy in London

Much earlier that same day, John Markham stood over the stove at Mrs. Seymore's in London, frying up link sausage which he'd cut into coins. He carefully flipped each coin so that it became crispy and browned on both sides, then removed each one to a plate before putting chopped onions and peeled, sliced potatoes in the pan to cook in the rendered grease. He salted and peppered the vegetables liberally and then let them get on with cooking while he sat down for his first mug of tea. Sarah, who'd awakened him that morning before first light, had observed the morning's proceedings closely from the moment he lit the stove off the previous night's coals, but offered no comment until he sat down to the tea. 

"Aren't you supposed to be stirring that, sir?" She looked pointedly at the fry pan on the stove, on the off chance that he might have thought she meant his tea instead. '"Ye can't mean to be leaving it alone like that -- it'll burn for sure."

Markham sipped his tea before answering. "It won't burn. Raw taties take a fair bit of time to cook."

Sarah looked doubtful. "On yer head be it, sir. The missus is not like to be kind if breakfast is burned, though. She sharpened her tongue on me a few times afore I got a better grasp of soss 'n eggs." Markham thought privately that her grasp of soss and eggs was still somewhat lacking, else he'd not be cooking breakfast, but he opted not to say anything on that front.

"I'll take responsibility if it burns. But it won't, you'll see." He sipped his tea again and listened to the potatoes and onions frying on the stove. The frying sounds had quieted some, but he couldn't smell any browning yet and the stove was going along medium hot, the temperature having leveled out once he'd gotten it fully lit. He watched the steam curl up from his tea, enjoying the quiet.

He hadn't had time to gather his thoughts before Sarah interrupted the peace of the morning, "You'd best be flippin' them taties and onions. They've been one side down for long enough, I expect."

"They're fine." He sipped his tea with exaggerated care, trying not to smirk at her worry and remembering when he'd learned to cook fried taties and onions. He'd been, what, fifteen that year? Not much younger than she looked, but it seemed a lifetime ago. He'd set out with the best of intentions but wound up serving pale, mushy fried taties and onions that tasted greasy. His mum kindly waited until her husband had left to start on the day's chores before she said anything.

"There's times, Johnnie, when doin' more is not the way."

"What d'ye mean?"

"These taties -- you fussed 'em about the pan too much when you should have let them alone to crisp and brown."

"I didn't want them to burn." It hadn't seemed like _cooking_ to just leave things alone in the pan to get on with it themselves.

"They have to, a little, to crust and get brown," she'd said. "Leave them be longer than you think you should, then flip them no more than three times in all. They don't need endless fussing in the pan and in fact they'll suffer for it."

The smell of the taties and onions browning broke through his reverie, so Markham rose to flip them for the first time.

"I reckon they're burnt now," offered Sarah, uncharitably, when she saw him get up. "Ye've gone and waited too long."

"Come and see," said Markham. Sarah got up from the table and walked to the stove, tea in hand, to be greeted by the browned side of the taties face up, looking utterly delicious. Some of the onion bits were very dark brown, near black, but John knew that they'd be fine in the overall scheme of things.

"I could've sworn they were burnt. Smelled burnt to me, anyway."

"Fried taties need to be left alone more'n they need fussin' about the pan." He turned to go back to the table, adding, "And wasn't it you who was counseling me about patience the other day?"

"Oh, aye, but that was about fucking, not cooking." Sarah joined him at the table, easing herself back down onto the chair. He saw her wince as she settled in.

"Arse givin' ye fits?" asked John conversationally.

Sarah's eyes snapped to his. "What business is it of yours? And how would you know, anyway?"

"I told you -- I was married. My wife Molly, when she was expectin', she had the same trouble when she got some size to her belly. Her mum said things'd go back as they should once the baby came. Until then, not that you'll fit in the tub too well, hot baths will make ye feel better."

"Well, I ain't got a mum to tell me, so thank you for the information." She did not sound particularly thankful, but moderated her tone as she continued. "T'other girls what work for Pip don't talk much about it. They swell, they come here, they foster the babes, and then they go back to work like as before, only poorer 'cause of needing money to pay the foster."

"They foster the babies?"

"And I'm sure there's a line of men wantin' to tup next to a whore's bastard squallin' and red. No sense for 'em to foster the babes out at considerable expense, is there?"

"Oh. Right, of course. Do they send 'em to live with family?" He was genuinely curious and hoped that the simple question would be taken as a peace offering.

"Most of us got no family, or none could afford to take in a babe. Whorin' ain't a job for women with prospects nor is it a first choice for most of us," said Sarah sharply. "Also, if the babe went to family, it wouldn't cost so dearly." More kindly, she added, "There's ads in the paper, respectable widows and such to take in and care for infants. They charge a fee to take the babies in."

"So the babies are fostered when they're little. What d'ya do when they get bigger?" John got up to flip the taties again.

"Mostly they don't." That answer, while simple and plainly delivered, was not the answer he'd been expecting. He fumbled the turner, clanging it on the skillet and spattering himself with speckles of grease.

"What do you mean?" It came out calmer than he felt inside. He didn't turn to look at her, but kept staring at the pan, hoping she didn't mean what he felt sure she meant.

"Mostly they don't get bigger." Sarah clarified what, to her, was a widely-known truth. "Look, sir, if you hand over a baby and twelve pound to a woman with no references whom you meet in the street, neither you nor she is surprised when the baby dies promptly of whatever fever or flux catches hold of him. I'm sure that not all of the babies die -- some of them probably get handed over to people who want 'em -- but mostly they never grow up."

"That's awful."

"Worse than being a whore's bastard? Worse than poverty, starvation, lack of schooling or prospects?"

Markham tried gamely to present an opposing argument, "If they're alive, there's at least a chance..." but Sarah cut him off.

"Like you in prison over at Newgate? What was the chance of you getting out of there? Not a wager I'd take, anyhow."

"I... how can you sit there, great with child, and tell me with a straight face that you intend to put him in harm's way once he's born?"

"I don't see how to keep him out of it. I can barely make enough money at whorin' to keep myself, let alone pay another to watch a baby. I can't watch him myself, or I'll starve and then so will he. St. James is hard-pressed to minister to the faithful poor of good character, they ain't about to give handouts to the likes of me, and the workhouse'll give him and me both to the reaper but it'll starve us first.

Still over the skillet, Markham nodded. After the victory over Napoleon, the Corn Law and a particularly bad harvest in 1816 had driven food prices skyward, squeezing the poor more viciously than usual. He'd even noticed that in St. Giles, where meager rations had become more so after Waterloo. Since he couldn't answer her arguments, words being regrettably unable to change the realities of life, he changed the subject. "Breakfast is almost ready. You might see to getting Mrs. Seymore up and about so that it'll be hot when she sits down to it."

Sarah, grateful enough to put the conversation behind her, got up from the table and headed off to help the missus out of bed. She returned with the old woman on her arm about the time John had re-hotted the sausage coins by tossing them in the pan with the potatoes. While Sarah helped her sit down, Markham fixed a plate for Mrs. Seymore and set it in front of her. She glared at it. "What's this?" she asked, poking it with a fork, while Markham did plates for Sarah and for himself.

"Taties and onions with sausage," said Sarah. "Sir cooked it for you," she added, pinning whatever blame was coming on him in advance. She took her own plate from Markham and had raised the first forkful to her mouth when Mrs. Seymore's perfectly-timed question interrupted its journey, as if by accident.

"Have we no tea?"

"The kettle's not boiled yet, but there will be tea soon. I'll make it as soon as it's ready, ma'am."

At that, Mrs. Seymore stabbed a blameless sausage coin with more vigor than it deserved and condescended to try it. It took her a little effort to get through it, as her remaining teeth were not quite up to the task, but she persevered. Then she tried some taties, another coin, some more taties. The water for the tea had boiled but hadn't finished steeping before her plate was clear. Sarah took the empty plate back to the stove while she was fixing the tea, added another scoop of taties and sausage, and put it back down in front of Mrs. Seymore along with the thrice-sugared tea.

"Looks like you're good for something, anyway," said Sarah to Markham, who was halfway through his plate and on his second cup of tea. "Marlowe said he'd be back today for fittings, right?"

"The tailor? Yes. Cobbler didn't say a word about fittings, but the tailor said two days for the rough fittings to be ready. I've no idea what that entails but he said that after the fittings, it'd take four days for the finish work. With luck, I should have my wardrobe before next Sunday, if his lads keep at it."

"When 'e gets here, tell 'im you want one pair of breeches to fit fairly snug as you are now."

"If I do, they won't fit me long."

"They won't have to. Ye must give yer lord (and his lady for that matter) summat to look at. I've seen ye and you're not badly made. Got nice legs, for what that's worth... a bit skinny, but shaped well, and they'll serve the purpose. Ye ken shopkeeps put their goods in the window because people want what they can see."

Markham grinned to himself, ducking his head so that Sarah wouldn't see, and waited to hear the allegedly sage advice he was to receive this morning. He did not have to wait long.

Sarah opened with a question. "Have ye got any idea how these people of yours are going to decide if you'll suit or not?"

"Hensley didn't say. I expect they'll interview me, talk to me a bit, but beyond that, I haven't the foggiest." He stared into his teacup. In truth, he'd been thinking about it fairly seriously since the prior day's conversation with Sarah. Was there going to be a test ride, as one might do if shopping for a hack? What on earth would the lady compare him to, anyway? He picked up his cup to drink the last swallow of tea when Sarah spoke up.

"If you can arrange it so, you should do him first. And, if possible, let her watch you with him. It'll whet her curiousity, if not her nethers." Sarah smirked into her teacup.

Markham nearly spit out his tea, more from the notion of being watched than from the pun. "I'm sure she won't..." He didn't get any further than that before Sarah shut him down.

"You best rethink your ideas of what she will or won't. I wouldn't imagine one in a hundred ladies would agree to this arrangement -- clearly, she's not an ordinary lady and you can't go by what an ordinary lady would do. You have no idea what this lady will or won't. And, if it were me in her virgin shoes, I would for damn sure find a way to peek at naked men if I thought I could get away with it."

"You're right, I suppose. But what if I can't? What if being watched unmans me?" Markham realized he was talking to his cup and it was way too early in the conversation for that.

"Keep thinking like that and it will," chipped in Mrs. Seymore. Sarah shot her a glance that clearly indicated she was not helping matters. "Help me up, Bess, I want to go sit in the parlor. By myself. You young folks can chatter away without me since my experience isn't counted useful." Sarah helped her up and lent her an arm to totter to the parlor. She came back some minutes later, having drawn the curtains and arranged the lap rug (twice) and located the ottoman correctly under Mrs. Seymore's feet. 

She picked up where the conversation had left off. "Doin' him first in front of her is like putting the shop's goods in the window. It's like wearing tight breeches. You're advertising. She can see you with him, see him enjoy your attentions, get an idea how cocks work, see that nobody goes away injured or unhappy, see that there's a give and take, that sort of a thing. Remember, all of this will be new to her. She doesn't know you from Adam, and she's got no reason at all to want you when you first show up. You've got to get her to want you."

Markham stood and started pacing the room. This was not the fun conversation he'd envisioned having. "You're very worried about me pleasing her. What if he doesn't like me? Doesn't his opinion matter?"

"He's the one who is at risk for being hanged and the one who can not make any other marriage than this sort. I expect she could find another man easily enough. But he's not got any other option than to marry her, so he's going to do what she wants. Also, he's not bound to you -- if he finds you truly unsatisfactory, he can go elsewhere. It'd be risky, but judging from how much coin was thrown around getting you out of Newgate, he wouldn't be without resources to smooth the way."

"Makes sense, but this is all castles in the air. I won't know anything for certain until I get there." He ran his hand through his hair, which was unfashionably long though not, this morning, a total wreck.

"Doesn't mean that you should go in completely unprepared. If you get a choice for how things will go, what d'ya plan to do with him? Like, specifically? Are ye gonna fuck him? Are ye gonna suck him off? Let him fuck you? Jerk yer cocks together?"

"I don't know!" said Markham irritably, while thinking that Sarah was remarkably well-informed about sex between men. "I suppose that I should do what he wants to do? Since he's the customer?"

"You could leave your future to chance, or you could expect that he's going to be nervous and maybe open to your suggestions. Presumably you're going to take some time for kissing and touching before you get down to cocks?" She looked at him for confirmation. He nodded and felt his face heat. "So, you might spend some of those precious moments talking to him. Remember, he's going to be vested in making this work and that means he may be biddable. So, what would be most useful for her to watch you do to him? And make no mistake, it's best if you're the one doing to him so that she can see how you are. Advertising, remember, she's the one you have to entice. He already knows that sex feels good. She's got no idea. What might make her want to put herself in his shoes?" Sarah was, Markham realized, asking him real questions to which she expected answers.

Instead of feeling badgered, he considered the question seriously. Fucking between men wasn't a given. Some men didn't like it or couldn't relax into it. Some men would only fuck and not let themselves be fucked. Proper rogering needed prep and time. It looked painful, was sometimes messy... no. Not fucking. That left hand or mouth, and she didn't have a cock, likely had no idea hard and fast they needed stroked to spill. Right, then. "I'd suck him, given the option. She'll know, once she's kissed, how that feels on her mouth and can imagine how it might feel elsewhere. She can see his reactions when I'm down on my knees in front of him, and it's not scary-looking to be the one getting sucked, not like being the one fucked in t'arse. Jerking cocks together isn't... she hasn't got a cock to know one way or t'other what they like or how sturdy they are. It'd probably look too rough to her and besides it'd be harder for her to imagine herself in that position."

"Hensley said ye were smart. Nice to see he's not off his game," said Sarah smiling a little. "So, you're going to offer to suck him off, your man. Are ye any good at it?"

"Good enough at men," he said with a hint of pride. He was not sure what made him offer the next bit, "Never tried to do a woman, though."

"Do you lack imagination? Courage?"

"Not at all, just never got 'round to it." Markham was lying. What he'd lacked was permission. Molly'd thought it sinful and perverse when he asked and he'd been unable to persuade her otherwise in the year or so they'd been married.

"I see," said Sarah, "If ye've not licked slit, then have ye seen one in fair lighting? Know yer way about it?"

He shrugged. "I never... Molly didn't..." He gave up. "Might as well tell me what you think I should know."

"I," she said, "am going to draw you a picture. And then we're going to talk about it." She fetched a piece of paper and a stub of pencil from the parlor and set to drawing. As she worked, he got up and stood behind her so that he could see as she drew.

"Right," she said, apparently finished. He looked at the drawing. He looked at her.

"I don't get it."

"I am not surprised. I'm no artist. But anyways, this is what you'd see if she was on her back, so the top of the drawing here is her belly side, right? Here's her arsehole, which ye ought to be able to find. Slit starts a bit up from that, and the hole ye fuck is near the bottom of the slit, kinda. But," she said, "the part that feels best to her is damn near at the top of the slit." She pointed with the stub of pencil. "If you are going to use your mouth on her, you should spend more of your time there than jammin' yer tongue in the hole ye fuck. Using yer mouth is not like fucking, don't try to make it be. I mean, ye can for fun, but it ain't like to get her off."

He squinted at the drawing. "You didn't draw it very big."

"It ain't very big."

"How am I supposed to find this not-very-big thing?"

"Slit has two sets of lips, kind of. One set's furry, defines the outlines. Other set's naked. Follow the naked lips up to the top of her slit to where they join together. It's there. This is all much easier on a real person, you'll figure it out."

"I'm surprised you didn't get told to show me on yourself," said Markham, only partially in jest.

Sarah stared at him for a long minute. "I told him," she meant Hensley, "that there was things I wouldn't do. That was one of them. He suggested it, though, make no mistake." Sarah's admission confirmed his suspicions about Hensley's hand in these conversations, not that he'd had much doubt on that front, but Markham couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that she'd been allowed to refuse to do something Hensley'd asked her for. Hensley didn't strike Markham as a man who faced refusals frequently and yet he'd gotten one and, apparently, honored it from a street whore not yet eighteen.

A knock at the door, conveniently, kept him from pursuing that line of thought further. Sarah shoved the little drawing at him, saying "Keep it, it's yours," as she got up to let the tailor and his helper in.


End file.
